


Pain-Bearer

by lilithiumwords



Series: All That Stands Between Us [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Underage, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slow Build, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 250,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithiumwords/pseuds/lilithiumwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate reality, Erebor was never taken by Smaug, and the War of Dwarves and Orcs never happened. The Orcs invaded the Shire, slaughtering hundreds and taking countless more as slaves. Bilbo is slave to Azog, the Dwarf King's mortal enemy... until the Dwarf King rescues him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one who begs for pain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme, for [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/702.html?thread=405182#t405182).
> 
> Thank you for the support!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word meanings:**  
>  _nûl-lûpûrz_ \-- he who begs for pain, or "pain bearer"  
>  _snaga_ \-- slave  
>  _akashuga_ \-- hobbit  
>  _âmbal_ \-- pretty  
>  _nûl-lûpûrz-izub_ \-- my pain bearer  
>  _danghum_ \-- punishment  
>  _gîl_ \-- meal time  
>  _gazatu_ \-- dwarfs

_Nûl-lûpûrz._ "He who begs for pain." The one who takes the pain of everyone else, in love for his master.

Except Bilbo held no love for his master, and every day he wished he could give the pain away -- but never to his fellow Hobbits, his cousins and neighbors who withered away one by one beneath the torments of the Orcs. After the Shirefall -- after the day the sky turned black -- Bilbo was one of the few Hobbits -- of the several dozen who were not sold to Orc tribes faraway -- who survived the torture of the Moria Orcs. Some fell to starvation, or to their wounds, or to suicide -- but not Bilbo, nor many others. He was too highly prized.

 _Nûl-lûpûrz_. This was Bilbo Baggins's title in the darkened halls of Azog the Defiler. He was not "Bilbo" anymore to the people around him -- he was _nûl-lûpûrz_ , Azog's personal slave. He was the only Hobbit who got a special name. The rest of his brethren were usually called _snaga_ or _akashuga_ by the Orcs. That was all they were, now -- halfling slaves to the Orc race of the caverns of Moria, no longer Hobbits of the Shire.

But Bilbo would always be called _nûl-lûpûrz_ by any whose path he crossed. It had been given to him the very first day he was dragged crying and shaking before the great pale Orc. His mother Belladonna trembled beside him but did not scream, even as she reached for him, desperation in her gaze. His father Bungo was already dead, murdered when the Orcs first invaded. Yet Bilbo and his mother were spared, for they were _âmbal_ to the Orcs, pretty with their pale curls and dark eyes -- so they were dragged, kicking and screaming, across the woods and plains past the burnt Old Forest, far beyond the crumbling remains of Bree and the empty fields that gave them unto Moria.

That day he had lost his mother. He had screamed when she was dragged before the great pale Orc who sat beside a white Warg. Azog had looked upon her, then gave her to his army leaders, his expression cruel as they ripped off her clothes. His mother was so brave -- she never shed a tear, though she screamed at the Orcs even as their claws pierced her sides -- but Bilbo could not handle the sight of his mother on her back beneath the horrible monsters.

He ran forward, the ropes around his wrists digging deeply, then relaxing as his Orc captors caught him. He fell to his knees and looked up at Azog, tears dripping down his dirty face. "Please," he begged, straining against the Orcs who dragged him back, "please don't hurt her! Please, please spare her! Hurt me instead! _I will take her pain!_ "

The Orcs on top of his mother stopped when Azog lifted a hand. Azog gazed down at him, something glinting in his cruel, cruel eyes, the first light after the blackness of Shirefall -- and not one that Bilbo ever wished to see.

"No," he said simply, and Bilbo let out a shriek when the Orcs leapt on his mother again. He begged and pleaded and reached for her, his wrists cracked and rubbed raw from the shackles. He cried when her blood ran across the cold stones, firelight glinting on red. The Orcs drew back, laughing and shouting with triumph, but Bilbo looked upon his mother and saw that her eyes were blank, her hand ever reached out to him, as if to pat his head one last time and tell him it would be okay. 

But it would never be okay. He had trembled, feeling black hate unfurl in his heart as he looked up at Azog the Defiler. Azog stared back at him, and with one pale hand beckoned his captors forward. He was dragged, silent and stunned, to kneel before Azog's throne, close enough to feel the heat of Azog's powerful body.

Azog reached out that pale hand to caress his dirty, bloody blond curls, and Bilbo would grow to despise that soft touch. " _Nûl-lûpûrz-izub,_ " Azog murmured, his fingers closing into a fist around Bilbo's hair, making his scalp burn. He did not know what it meant -- he would soon grow to hate the words -- but at that moment he felt everything break. He had held himself together somehow, clinging to his mother as they were taken from their home alongside hundreds of other Hobbits, after the skies turned black and Orcs invaded their warm little Hobbit holes -- after everything burned and everyone died. His mother, fierce Hobbit that she was, would not let him fall -- but her death was the end of his tenuous sanity.

His father's corpse lay in the front hall of Bag-End. His mother's corpse lay but a few feet away, covered in the filth of lustful Orcs. Behind him, other Hobbits screamed and cried as they were dragged off to their dooms. Before him sat the Orc who had ordered the fall of everything Bilbo and every other Hobbit had ever held dear. That day Bilbo had looked up into reddened blue eyes and felt his heart shatter for the last time. 

Azog claimed him that night, and every night after. He was Azog's jewel -- the one slave the Defiler would share with no one else. No other Orc had ever touched him, except for the captors who first dragged him before Azog, and if any of them tried, they were quickly attacked by Azog's white Warg.

At first Bilbo did not know why. Then later, he would understand. It was his spine, Azog told him.

Every time Azog beat him, he stood back up but hours later. Every time Azog raped him, he crawled away to his little cushion at the foot of Azog's bed. Every time Azog taunted him, he glared and bit his tongue. Every time, he screamed and cried and beat against Azog's chest, and though he whimpered and begged to be let go, he still did not give in to his wounds or desire for death.

Azog loved the fire in him -- the steel in his spine, or so he murmured at night, when Bilbo lay crying silently on his cushion. Bilbo stood up to him when no other slave ever had, and Azog longed to break him.

But Bilbo had nothing more to break. Azog had taken everything from him already. All he had left was his pain.

~

By the Shire Reckoning, it had been 1323 when Azog the Defiler's army turned the skies black.

His cousins and neighbors and kin -- all of them disappeared. He knew some of the Hobbits had escaped into towns of Men -- he had not seen his Took cousins anywhere in the hundreds of Hobbits dragged before Azog -- but Bilbo knew not whether any of them lived. All he knew was that Hobbits were the slaves of Orcs, and that no army of Men, Elves, or Dwarves ever came to their rescue. They were abandoned to a fate worse than death. He did not blame the other races, though; he barely remembered that they existed, these days. No one could stop Azog the Defiler.

Bilbo had been Azog's plaything for seven years since the Shirefall. He did not keep time well, as he had not seen sunlight even once in the years since his capture, but he was certain that it had been about seven years. He felt much older than he must be. For a Hobbit he was still young, just growing into an adult, but the years spent kneeling at Azog's feet had aged him in ways he could not have seen eight years ago.

His days were spent at Azog's side, silent and obedient in front of Azog's minions. He knelt or sat on cushions beside Azog's throne, and Azog often ran his claws through Bilbo's curls as if in affection. When Azog had left the caves to lead an attack or simply did not want him around, Bilbo was allowed to roam the halls as he wished, and no Orc would dare harm him. He wore nothing but threadbare trousers and cold steel bracelets on his hands and neck. Azog's name was carved into his stomach amongst the scars of his punishments, marking him as untouchable.

His nights were spent in Azog's bed until the Defiler fell asleep. It was during these torturous nights that Bilbo fought back, and time and time again Azog would whisper to him with great cunning and cruelty, somehow convincing him not to throw himself into the depths of Moria's great caverns.

_"If you bow your head and pleasure me, my pretty little hobbit, I will not have the next group of halflings beaten."_

_"If you shed no tears tonight while I take you, my pretty little hobbit, I will stop my Orcs from raping the little halflings."_

_"If you beg me, my pretty little hobbit, I will take away their pain."_

_"Instead, their pain will be yours."_

But Azog always lied. Bilbo knew that his fellow Hobbits suffered no matter what Azog whispered into his ears in the darkness. He would have taken their pain and more, but always Azog was one step ahead of him, and even the Great Defiler could not stop the Orcs from plundering his poor kin. Oh, how Bilbo _hated_ Azog.

~

Over time, Bilbo came to understand the innerworkings of Orc culture very well. Having a clever mind, he learned much of the Black Speech, though he never gave Azog or any of the other Orcs any hint of his knowledge. The other slaves learned the most basic of words -- _akashuga_ , _danghum_ , _gîl_ \-- the words that helped a Hobbit stay alive one more day.

After seven years of kneeling at Azog's side, listening to his meetings with his army leaders, Bilbo could understand the Black Speech near-perfectly.

So one day, when Azog returned from a hunt looking wild and gleeful, Bilbo listened carefully from his cushion.

 _Gazatu_ were mentioned. Dwarves, the most hated enemy of Azog's armies. Moria had once been a Dwarf kingdom, and Azog had lost his temper more than once growling about Durin's line and the Dwarves of Erebor. If Azog was angry about Dwarves, then Bilbo would likely pay the price tonight.

" _I want Thorin's head_ ," Azog murmured, and Bilbo remembered vaguely that Thorin was the last of Durin's line and one of Azog's worst enemies. He must have done something truly horrible recently to make Azog this aggravated. Azog had a peculiar way of showing his anger -- he seemed happy even as he raged. Azog let out a high laugh, and Bilbo shuddered.

 _"He has defied me for the last time. If he is to march on Moria, then we will meet him and burn his forces to the ground. His head shall be mine. Send word! There is a price on Thorin Oakenshield's head!"_ Azog thundered, and in front of them, Orcs cried out with fervent agreement.

Dwarves marching on Moria? A tiny hope fluttered in the back of Bilbo's mind. When would it happen? Would they really fight against the Orcs? What would happen to the Hobbits?

The Orcs cackled and leapt away, past trembling Hobbits that cowered as they pulled back the trays of food and drink prepared for the meeting. Azog rose and picked up Bilbo's chain, pulling him along as he stalked back to his room. Bilbo followed quickly, stumbling after him, and once inside the great stone room, Azog picked him up and threw him on the pile of furs, letting out a dark laugh again.

Bilbo backed up quickly, and Azog stalked up to the bed, his Warg slinking into the room behind him and growling softly.

" _You will cry for me tonight, my pretty little hobbit_ ," Azog purred, and for a moment Bilbo cursed the name of Thorin, the tiny hope in the back of his mind wavering in the face of the Defiler and his peculiar lust for Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ewelock made [this GLORIOUS fanart of Bilbo](http://eweart.tumblr.com/post/48258847455/ewelock-pain-bearer-wip-by-lilithiumwords), just for this story! :)
> 
> Cover art by [milkbubble](http://milkbubble.tumblr.com)!


	2. When everything began to change

Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thráin II, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain, King of Durin's Folk, stood at the edge of a great camp, gazing over the silent tents of his army. They were but four days from the ancient mines of Moria, and more of his brethren would meet them tomorrow. His gaze darkened, a heavy longing rising up in his throat, as he thought of the reason why they marched to Moria.

Long ago, Moria had been a glorious underground city of Dwarven mines and riches, until the rise of Sauron brought Orcs to invade its massive halls. It had been lost to Dwarves for almost a thousand years, and many generations of Dwarves had yearned to retake their former home. 

When Thorin was a young Dwarf of forty-seven, his grandfather Thrór traveled to Moria to see its splendors. He met his death, though, at the hands of Azog the Defiler, a terrible foe to the Dwarf race and Thorin's worst enemy. His father lived on and took on the mantle of King under the Mountain for fifty-one years, until he grew restless and journeyed south, perhaps driven by the Ring of Power on his finger. Yet Thráin, too, met his death at the hands of Azog, captured by goblins and dragged deep into Moria. His head had been returned to Erebor on a pike.

So Thorin had taken up the name of King under the Mountain for his father and grandfather. His reign had been long, and his line was guaranteed in his sister-sons, who were dear to him. Yet year after year, Thorin burned to defeat Azog the Defiler, who had taken so much from him and laid waste to his people. Durin's Folk lived strong in the underground cities of Erebor, but still they sought to reclaim the other great kingdoms of old.

So Thorin had gathered an army of fierce warriors and marched south. More of their kin would join them from the north, and whether he lived or died through this battle, his brother had stayed in Erebor as he had ordered, watching over his people and the city of Dale in worry, along with his sister-sons Fíli and Kíli, securing the line of Durin. Thorin did not know how many Orcs had infested their precious mines, and he knew that the fight with Durin's Bane would be fierce. Many of his people would die for this quest -- yet Thorin believed it was worth it. To reclaim Moria and destroy Azog -- it would be worthwhile, in the end.

The Orcs had grown too dangerous. Seven years ago an Orc army, sent by Azog, had slipped past the Elves of Rivendell and marched across Eriador, pillaging countless towns of Men and completely destroying the Shire, the land of the Halflings. Hundreds of Halflings had fled and now hid in the empty halls of Fornost, the crumbling ruins of Tharbad, or in the hills of Minhiriath. Thousands more had been slaughtered, and the green hills of the Shire were now a blackened wasteland.

The Dwarves were not completely alone in their quest to reclaim Moria. In their company was Gandalf, a Wizard who had loved the Shire very dearly. Gandalf had expressed great anger at Azog and the Orcs for their treachery and had sought Thorin upon hearing rumor of his decision. Thorin had allowed the alliance, as Gandalf had agreed to take care of Durin's Bane, the Balrog that haunted the halls of Moria.

"Dark are these times," Thorin muttered to himself, lifting his gaze to glare at the stalactites of the massive cave they rrested in. Soon he would sink his sword into Azog's neck, and he would laugh as Azog's head rolled just as his father's and grandfather's had.

"Very dark indeed," a voice said behind him, and Thorin turned quickly to find Gandalf standing there, Balin and Dwalin watching them from the campfire. Thorin gave him a frown and looked back upon the camp, debating whether to ignore him. He did not get along well with Gandalf, even though he appreciated the Wizard's advice and knowledge.

"It was not always so," Thorin finally replied, crossing his arms over his chest. Gandalf stepped up beside him and hummed.

"I still think you would be wise to seek the counsel of the Elves of Lorien," Gandalf started, and Thorin groaned at the mention of the most argued point of discussion that had occurred during nearly every conversation between the two of them.

Quickly Thorin held up a hand, a scowl on his face. "No, Gandalf," he said, giving the Wizard a look. "I will not seek assistance from the likes of Elves. They will never approve of our plan, and there is not a single Elf in all of Middle-Earth that I will trust, not after Thranduil's betrayal."

Gandalf frowned down at him, but Thorin had tired of this conversation already. He knew the Wizard thought highly of Elves and especially of the Lady Galadriel, but Thorin refused to consider the prospect. His Dwarves would be enough. Gandalf opened his mouth to argue again, and Thorin scowled and stepped away, shaking his head. "I do not wish to hear of this any longer, Gandalf. My decision is final. My men are powerful and swift, and it will be Durin's Folk who reclaim Khazad-dûm, not any others. It is our birthright."

Gandalf peered down at him and hummed again, looking as if he wanted to argue more, but he merely muttered about the stubbornness of Dwarves and nodded, stepping back politely. "Very well, Master Oakenshield," he said, and bade Thorin good night before walking back to their camp, disappearing into the darkness beyond. Thorin watched him retreat and noted Balin and Dwalin standing up to retire, briefly feeling grateful to his friends for watching out for him.

Thorin would sleep soon, but not yet. For now he watched over his people who slumbered peacefully. The scouts and guards at the edges of the massive camp kept watch, as Orcs had attacked their army more than once. Thorin knew in his gut that Azog wanted him dead and did not want this war -- but Thorin would defeat him. He had sworn on his father's and grandfather's honor to avenge them and to guarantee the future of his people.

Little did he know that his war would bring more than just honor and glory upon him.

~

As a rule, Bilbo spent as much time as he could with the other Hobbits.

There were dozens of them, most belonging to various Orc leaders as personal slaves, but many worked as thatchers or fire watchers or whatever other jobs the Orcs pushed them to do. They were kept in a large hall that was guarded by three of Azog's Wargs, and any Orc who wished to use a Hobbit -- or eat one -- had to gain permission from Azog first before it could enter the room. It was in that hall that Bilbo spent the majority of his time when Azog was away. Usually he stayed with the children, telling them stories and stroking their curly hair, sometimes merely holding them. He tried to give them peace in the terror of their existence, but he could not stop it when an Orc would step into the room and demand a fresh _snaga_ for whatever lusts it had in mind.

Bilbo could protect the children, though. As _nûl-lûpûrz_ , no Orc was allowed to touch him, and if he stood in front of the children and glared, then the Orc could not take one, lest Bilbo later tell Azog that someone had molested him. Sometimes a child disappeared while he was gone, but always Bilbo tried to protect them, to keep them as innocent as possible.

Sometimes, if he found out that a child had been given to one of the Orcs, he would slip some of the black mushrooms found in the lower caverns into the child's soup for that night. The next morning the child would be cold and their lips black, and though the Orc would howl and rage, the little one's face would forever rest in a soft, peaceful expression, as if dreaming of their mother's lap on a warm summer day -- never to know the horrors of an Orc's bloodlust.

If Bilbo knew of a Hobbit who was close to the edge of sanity, who could not do his work and was being beaten worse every day for it, sometimes he slipped the same mushrooms to that Hobbit. He was the only person who could reach the cavern to find the mushrooms, and so it was by his hand that several Hobbits gave up on living. Bilbo did not regret his actions, though. He was happy to spare their pain.

Azog would torment and beat him each time a Hobbit died with black on its lips, but Bilbo continued to protect his people. Every time he saw a Hobbit crying, he remembered his mother, and it was for her that he took these punishments. It was in her memory that he gave his fellow Hobbits relief from the torment that was their reality.

He only wished he could do the same. Yet he knew that if he took his own life, Azog would torment and hunt his kin until every last Hobbit was either a slave or dead. So Bilbo carried their pain for them, and the other Hobbits always watched him and whispered, touching his hands and stroking his curls and huddling against his back while he sat in the hall with them.

If the last words on a Hobbit's black lips were "pain-bearer," well, Bilbo ignored it. He could not bear all of their pain, not when Azog's cruelty ruled over every living thing in the mountain. He could not stop the Orcs from giving the slaves punishment. He could not stop the Orcs from eating their corpses when they died. He could not stop the rapes, the torture, the beatings, or the pain of the Hobbits who already belonged to other Orcs.

But he could protect the little ones, and he could grant death to those who needed it. Another dead Hobbit, another mark on his soul -- another pain for Bilbo to carry.

~

When Bilbo slept, he dreamed of a happier time, when he could pick an apple from a table and run off into the woods to read. He dreamed of sun, of the wind in his hair, of fresh dirt beneath his feet as he worked in the garden. He dreamed of laughter and smiles, of warm roasted vegetables and cold ale. He dreamed of the Shire as it was, as it should still be but was not.

But every morning he woke to Azog's hands on his body, to another day of horror.

In the months since Bilbo had heard of Thorin's war march, Azog had been away quite frequently, sending scouts to watch Thorin's army as it advanced and meeting with his leaders, so often that he left Bilbo to wander as he pleased. So wander Bilbo did, mostly spending his time in the Hobbit hall, but when he was supposed to return to Azog's room to sleep, Bilbo would creep down to the lower caverns to explore the treasure hoards of the Orcs.

It was here that Bilbo had found his three secrets.

His first secret was that of the black mushrooms.

His second secret was a small Elvish sword that glowed blue whenever Bilbo unsheathed it.

His third secret was two gold rings that he kept hidden in a tiny chest, along with his Elvish sword and a few trinkets he had taken a liking to over the years. The chest was hidden in an old dusty closet that might have once held Dwarven linens, but it simply held cobwebs now. 

The gold rings were something that Bilbo had found by chance. One had tumbled to his feet one day as he walked past a particularly large mountain of gold, hoping to escape the haunting cries of one of the new captures of the Orcs in the halls above. It was a simple gold ring that had a good weight, and Bilbo liked to turn it over in his hands, though he had never put it on. 

The other he had found in a massive chest that a team of Orcs had carried in. It had a large blue gem set in the gold. It had looked to be his size, but when he had put it on, he had dreamed of caverns of gold and of Dwarvish war cries for a week afterward. So he had never put either of them on again, choosing instead to hide the rings away. He had no idea why he liked them so much, but he kept them anyway, thinking that one day, he might like to wear them.

The sword was a particularly brilliant find. He suspected that it was not a true sword, more like a large dagger made for an Elf, as it matched two other Elvish swords that had been thrown into the treasure hold one day several years ago. The Orcs who had carried the swords had hissed and snarled, and Bilbo had learned their names: Biter and Beater. Later, he had learned that the Orcs had raided a small group of Trolls from some nearby woods, and that the three weapons were part of the Trolls' treasure. Those Trolls were now part of the Orc slave force, kept apart from the Hobbits due to their bloodthirsty nature.

Bilbo longed to take the sword into Azog's room and sink it into his chest. He dreamed of it for many nights after he had first found the sword. But then Bilbo had witnessed one of the Hobbit children being dragged into the feeding grounds of the Trolls and left alone, and Azog had stroked his curls gently as Bilbo watched the child be slaughtered.

The screams had haunted him for weeks. He knew then -- he could not kill Azog. Azog would always overpower him, would always outwit him with his cunning cruelty, and even if he did manage to kill Azog, the rest of the Orcs would still live on, and they would no longer be under Azog's control, leaving the Hobbits unprotected. So Bilbo reluctantly hid the sword away.

At the moment, he was sitting outside the closet, stroking the metal sheath and listening for the echoes of celebration above. Azog should be returning soon, and Bilbo did not want Azog to catch him down here -- yet he wanted the peace to last for as long as possible. These moments alone were all he had, some days -- even spending time with the Hobbits lately was suffocating. They always looked to him with desperate eyes, believing he could save them, but Bilbo could not free them, could not take all of their pain away. Some days, it felt that his pain was too heavy for him to carry, and on days like today, he wished that he could sink his little sword into his own chest and drift off into oblivion.

More than anything he wished that Thorin really would come and kill all the Orcs. He did not believe it would happen, though -- Azog was too powerful, and the Orcs too full of bloodlust. He pitied the Dwarves, who would no doubt be murdered or taken as slaves, just as the Hobbits had been.

But it was nice to daydream, even for a little while, of a Dwarven King driving his sword into Azog's pale chest. To fantasize that black blood dripping down his back, those pale blue eyes wide with surprise. To imagine the death of the one being in Middle-Earth he would forever hate.

Then Bilbo heard a resounding cry above, and with a sigh he stood and hid the sword away again, then ran off to the hidden stairways that would take him back to the Orc halls. It wouldn't do to be late.

~

The Orcs were running around everywhere, half of them in chainmail and carrying weapons. They were shrieking orders for more swords, more helmets, more arrows -- Bilbo couldn't make sense of it.

As soon as Bilbo reached the main hall, gripping his chain to keep it from clinking against the ground, he crept up behind Azog's throne and took his place on the fur cushion beside it, kneeling obediently. Azog was standing in front of the throne giving orders, and Bilbo caught _seal off the east gate_ and _someone go find the balrog_ before Azog noticed him and turned around.

" _Nûl-lûpûrz-izub,_ " Azog growled, reaching to pick up Bilbo's chain. Bilbo eyed him fearfully but said nothing as Azog dragged him out of the room, starting when he noticed the Wargs herding all of the Hobbits back to their hall. Was something happening?

Azog shoved him into the room and glared down at him, and Bilbo was very tempted to kick him but chose not to. " _You will stay here_ ," Azog muttered threateningly, and Bilbo's mouth fell open. He had never been ordered to stay in Azog's room during the day, except in the beginning when Azog had been overly possessive of him.

"Is something happening?" he asked quickly, stepping forward.

Azog backhanded him, and Bilbo hit the ground several feet away, his cheek stinging from the force of Azog's blow. He looked up at Azog with wide eyes, but Azog only cursed at him and paced for a few moments. Finally the Defiler turned again and pointed at Bilbo, a domineering growl escaping his throat. Bilbo stilled and stared -- he only heard that growl when Azog had him in bed. 

" _You will STAY_ ," Azog said again, stalking over to grab Bilbo's chain and drag him to the bed. Bilbo started to protest when he saw Azog connect the chain to a hook on the wall, far too high for Bilbo to reach.

"What are you doing?" he cried, grabbing Azog's arm, but Azog only threw him away, and he landed on the pile of furs and hit his head against the wall.

" _Do not leave the room_ ," Azog growled, but his voice sounded strange, and Bilbo wondered if maybe Azog had thrown him around too hard for once.

As his vision swam, he saw Azog standing over him, pale blue gaze fixed on his face. He wanted to know what was going on. Had Thorin's army arrived? Were the Dwarves attacking? What would happen to the other Hobbits? But Azog's stare -- could his master be _worried_? -- kept his mouth closed, and finally Bilbo sunk into darkness.

When he woke, Azog was gone, and a tall dark-haired Dwarf stood in his place, staring down at Bilbo in shock.


	3. A fated meeting

Mountain by mountain the Dwarves had taken back the ancient kingdoms of their people.

With a massive army of Dwarves from all across Middle Earth, led by Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, the Misty Mountains were steadily gutted of the legions of Orcs and goblins that infested their depths. Thorin's people had become powerful in the years since his father's death at Azog's hands. The Dwarves were a strong and active race, and their population had swelled in the past two hundred years, even with the constant fights with the Orcs and the disagreements with the Elves. With the might of the Dwarves, this war against the Orcs had been almost easy compared to other, longer wars.

Many of the goblins fled the mountains to hide in the Downs that rested by the dead town of Bree, and many more died on the swords and axes of Dwarves that burned with fury for Azog and his people. Even more of the foul creatures had fled to Mirkwood and Mordor, and Thorin was thankful for it, though he and many others wished to kill every last Orc for their crimes against the world.

For in the depths of the Orc-riddled caves, the Dwarves had found something truly unholy: Hobbits, with chains on their wrists and necks, slaves to the Orcs.

The first time they had found Hobbits, Gandalf had scowled and Thorin had been surprised, but they had thought that perhaps some had been caught by the Orcs and were taken to be eaten. They sent the Hobbits with an escort to find their kin and continued, not thinking anything more of it.

Until they attacked another nest of Orcs and found a set of rooms that held over two hundred Hobbits, all shackled and worn from months of servitude.

The Dwarves had been horrified. The gentlest folk of Middle-Earth, enslaved by the foulest? Yet it was true. Gandalf had stood at the entrance to one of the rooms for a very long time, his aura slowly darkening with rage, until one of the Hobbit children had cried, "It's Gandalf! Hasn't he got fireworks?" Then Gandalf had softened, hiding his anger and smiled upon the Hobbits, going to tend to the children as the Dwarves broke off the Hobbits' chains and looked for water for them.

The Hobbits had quickly been freed and sent with another escort, and Gandalf had been apoplectic with rage. Every Orc clan's nest they had invaded had contained a similar horde of Hobbit slaves. Children, women, men, old and young -- the Orcs did not care, though some of them favored blondes over brunettes, and some preferred the fatter Hobbits to those with less girth. They were victims of both the ravenous hunger and the physical lusts of the Orcs, and it was all Thorin could do not to rage at how these gentle folk were tortured.

Now they had come upon the last mountain, the ancient mines of Moria, to reclaim their birthright. It had been seven years since Thorin had begun this journey, since Thorin had seen the shining halls of Erebor, his sister Dís, and his sister-sons Fíli and Kíli. Seven years since the Orcs raided Eriador and enslaved the race of Halflings.

It would be a long and fierce battle. Azog must have known of this march for months if not years, and his destructive anger would be explosive upon meeting Thorin's hatred. Gandalf, too, would be a considerable foe against the Orcs and the Balrog, and every Dwarf in his army who had stayed with him from the beginning was burning to take down Azog and claim the final mountains of their ancient home, as well as to make the Orcs pay for their actions against the Hobbits.

Thorin had dreamed of this day for years and years, since he was young and his grandfather was taken from him by the Defiler, since his father's head had been returned to him on a pike, and since the first battle he fought against Azog himself, earning the name Oakenshield and learning of true loathing. He would defeat Azog and hold his head high for every Orc and Dwarf to see. Khazad-dûm would once again be filled with Dwarves, as it should have been for the past millennium. All it would take was that one last step, and Moria would be theirs.

Thorin was determined to take it.

~

Thorin was creeping along a narrow cave that would lead them to Azog's lair. While his army led by Dwalin invaded the larger caves from the north, Thorin had taken a small company of about fifty men and snuck in from deep within the mines, using ancient tunnel maps that Balin had found. With him was Gandalf, who was to hunt down the Balrog, as well as his old friend Balin, and several others, some of whom were distantly related to Thorin himself. He trusted only his closest kin and friends with this mission. It would take stealth and might to deliver the blow to the center of Azog's base of power and topple it from the inside, as well as to rescue the Halfling slaves that were no doubt kept hidden away. Thorin knew he could depend on these men.

After what felt like hours of creeping, they had reached one of the main levels of the ancient mines, and Thorin could see the shacks and walkways of the Orc community, lit with fires but empty of Orcs. Judging by the cries and screams above, they must already be fighting with Thorin's army. Azog would be watching the battle, but would not attack himself, choosing instead to let his minions and command leaders do the fighting. Thorin would find him, soon.

With only a signal, the Dwarves fanned out and began to search the caves. Thorin noticed the ancient Dwarf architecture beneath the shanties and wooden walkways that the Orcs used to scramble around, but he ignored it in favor of searching, growing tenser as an hour passed, and then another. Still the Orcs above did not return, but Thorin was anxious to find the Hobbits and escape with them.

They were quick about it, checking halls and caverns for hidden rooms, until at last they came to what must be the main hall of the entire cave system. At the end of the hall, Thorin found a massive throne room that held an equally massive throne. It looked to have been made from the stone of the mountain, for a being much larger than a Dwarf.

_Azog._

Thorin glared at the throne for a moment, wanting nothing more than to burn the furs and skins draped over the ancient stone of his people. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a frayed cushion with a rug of fur hanging over it sitting beside the throne, and he felt his blood simmer, realizing it must be for a slave. But what slave would be allowed so close to the leader of an Orc clan? 

He had to turn his attention away, though, when he heard Balin shout.

"Thorin! We found them!"

Thorin turned and ran out of the throne room, following Balin's voice until he found his men standing outside another large room, with two dead Wargs lying outside. Looking in, he saw several dozen Hobbits huddled toward the back of the room, terrified and weeping as the Dwarves and Gandalf cajoled them to come closer. Walking forward, Thorin pushed past Balin and looked upon the Hobbits, letting his fierce expression soften a bit.

"I am Thorin Oakenshield, King of the Dwarf Kingdom of Erebor. We have come to rescue you."

The Hobbits started crying, and Thorin sighed, stepping back and allowing the others to tend to the poor Halflings. They had been trapped in this hell the longest, and Thorin hoped that they could find peace after returning to their kin. 

He had offered shelter and aid to the Hobbits they had rescued. Though he had welcomed the Hobbits to come north with his company, as well as suggested other places for them to settle, such as near the Blue Mountains with the Firebeard and Broadbeam clans of Dwarves, nearly all of the Hobbits had chosen to return to their homeland. Nevertheless, they had a tentative accord between their peoples, and it would be interesting to see Hobbits working so closely with Dwarves, for while they were a young race and had suffered so much in so little time, they were strong and fierce. This Thorin had already seen.

He was torn from his thoughts by a small pull on his coat, and he looked down to see a Hobbit child, barely taller than his knee. He knelt down and put a hand on the child's shoulder, feeling how thin it was beneath his fingers and swallowing a scowl, instead saying patiently, "Is something the matter, child?"

The child looked at him for a long moment, then leaned in and whispered, "Don't forget the pain-bearer. The big white Orc took him away." Then she turned and ran back to the other Hobbits, disappearing behind the skirts of one of the women.

Thorin stared at where the child had stood, feeling his hair stand on end. _Pain-bearer._ He had heard that term whispered from the Hobbits before, though they had never explained what it meant. Was it another slave? He suddenly remembered the cushion beside Azog's throne.

He stood, feeling cold, and summoned his friend Bofur to his side. "Come with me," he said quietly, and the two of them left the room. They searched hard, ten minutes passing until they came to a hall where a silver-gray Warg stood guard. Exchanging only a glance, Thorin and Bofur took out their weapons and charged the beast, slaying it within moments.

They looked past the Warg's corpse to find an ornate door, and Thorin realized that it looked like it belonged to a Dwarven lord. While Bofur stood watch, Thorin approached the door slowly, his weapon ready as he pushed it open.

Inside, the room was light only by a few torches. Thorin could see Orc weapons and clothes around the walls, but the room was surprisingly clean despite belonging to an Orc. At the back wall was a large pile of skins and furs, and Thorin suddenly realized that it was a bed. This was a bedroom.

_It must be where Azog sleeps._

Disgusted but anxious for some reason he could not explain, Thorin walked slowly to the bed and looked around, then started upon finding the reason that the Warg was standing guard.

There was a Hobbit lying on the furs near the wall. His wrists were shackled and there was a collar around his neck, with a heavy chain that was attached to a hook high on the wall. He was wearing nothing but torn pants, and Thorin could see dozens of scars littering his thin, pale body. His dirty hair was a dark blonde, and there was a bruise on his face and blood on the side of his head, matching a stain on the wall.

Worst of all, there was a carving in the skin of his stomach: _AZOG._

As Thorin stared, the Hobbit began to stir, cringing and curling up a bit against the wall. Swollen eyelids with dark circles underneath opened, revealing dark blue-gray eyes that pierced Thorin like an arrow. Then the Hobbit looked up and met his gaze.

Dwarf and Hobbit stared at each other for what seemed like ages. Thorin said nothing, not wanting to terrify the Hobbit, but somehow the Hobbit did not seem scared. His gaze bore into Thorin for a long time before he slowly sat up and leaned forward, his expression intense.

"Is he dead?" the Hobbit asked.

Thorin started, a frown appearing on his lips. "Is who dead?" he asked, confused.

The Hobbit licked his dry lips, smearing a bit of blood that had begun to seep from the cracks. "Is Azog dead?" he asked more quietly, looking almost desperate.

Thorin felt as if something shattered right then, and in the next moment, he felt so much rage that he wished to find Azog immediately and completely destroy him. But he held back his temper and shook his head, feeling dismayed when the Hobbit's expression crumpled. "No, we have not met him in battle yet," he said, glancing back at the doorway. "We are rescuing your kin now, so that they do not become victims any further."

The Hobbit reared back, looking shocked, and Thorin could only watch as a few tears escaped his eyes, but surprisingly the Hobbit's voice was level when he spoke. "You're getting them out of here?" he asked, and Thorin nodded, his gaze softening a bit.

"They will be safe," he promised, and the Hobbit bowed his head. Thorin wondered for a moment if he was weeping, averting his gaze, but soon the Hobbit had straightened. Thorin found himself with an intense feeling of respect for this Hobbit, who must have suffered as much as the others he had seen if not more. If he were truly Azog's personal slave... then Thorin would see to it personally that the Hobbit was saved.

Stepping forward, he lifted his sword and swung it at the chain, shattering it and freeing the Hobbit from his bindings. "Come," he said, offering his hand. "We must hurry if we are to escape before the Orcs return."

The Hobbit had stiffened and pressed back with a small cry, but he looked up at Thorin in wonder after the chain fell. Slowly, he reached up and put his small hand in Thorin's fingers, and Thorin gripped his hand and pulled him up, helping him steady himself. He eyed the blood on the Hobbit's head, but the other male -- boy? He looked young, this close -- was no longer bleeding, so Thorin did not say anything of it.

"I am Thorin," he said, not adding his last name or title, though he did not know why.

The Hobbit swayed a bit but straightened, his back straight despite the pain he had obviously suffered, and when Thorin spoke his name, he looked up sharply at the King, his dark eyes widening.

"Thorin?" the Hobbit said incredulously, then he threw his head back and laughed. It was a dark, dry laugh that sent a chill through Thorin. "Thorin Oakenshield himself! Oh, Azog will be so angry!" the Hobbit cried, covering his mouth with his hands, trying to muffle his laughter. His hands fell as his laughter stopped a few moments later, and the Hobbit straightened and smiled at him, looking happier than any Hobbit Thorin had met in the last seven years.

"I am Bilbo, Your Majesty, and I have never been gladder to meet you."


	4. An old friend

Bilbo could not believe what he was seeing. Here was the very Dwarf who had for so long eluded capture or death by Azog, sending the Defiler's temper through the roof on so many occasions. Since he had heard of Thorin's march, he had dreamed of this day, and here Thorin was, actually saving him and the Hobbits, just as he had wanted. He surreptitiously pinched himself, but no, there was real pain -- he was not dreaming this time.

He was free. Even for just a few moments, he would be _free_ , he would be Bilbo again -- he would not be Azog's _nûl-lûpûrz_ any longer. His hopes and dreams had _finally_ been answered, and the reality of it made Bilbo want to cry, but he held himself from letting go. Weeping and true relief would be for later -- if he survived. Bilbo would die before he let himself be Azog's slave again.

Thorin was unlike any Dwarf Bilbo had ever seen, too. There had been some visiting the Shire in years past, and more than once Azog's raids had brought back Dwarves to become slaves or to be given to the Orcs as some reward. Those Dwarves were usually stout with intricate braided beards, big noses and ears, and always cursing in Khuzdul. Oh, Thorin had the big nose and ears alright, but something about him was special. Thorin held himself with pride, like every other Dwarf Bilbo had met, yet something was different. Perhaps it was his regal bearing -- to Bilbo, he seemed very majestic -- or his smooth voice. 

All of the Dwarves he had met so far had red or blonde hair, but Thorin had dark, dark hair that was nearly black, with a few streaks of silver. He was tall for a Dwarf and had striking blue eyes -- eyes that had nearly given Bilbo a fright upon meeting them, but they were so unlike Azog's that he couldn't be anxious about them for long. Thorin had braids by his large ears, and though his beard was not very large by Dwarf standards, the hair on his chin was very long, hanging over his chest in three braids that came together with a silver hairpiece. The rest of his hair was long and loose, and Bilbo felt himself envious of how clean it looked.

Ah, to be clean.

But he was becoming distracted. Thorin had walked back to the door and was looking around the room with obvious derision, and Bilbo went to him, touching his sore head gingerly. Glancing back, he saw the same room he had slept in for seven years -- his home, in a manner -- and the place of his torment and nightmares for so long. He _hated_ this room. He hated that pile of furs, where Azog had claimed him time and again, where he had been beaten and raped more times than he could remember. He despised that cushion where he had curled up clutching his ribs or hiding his face to stop the tears, night after night. He itched to see it all burn.

Actually, that was a perfect idea.

Bilbo marched over to the massive fireplace, the only source of real warmth in this cold place, and stuck a piece of kindling in until it lit on fire. Then he tossed the branch onto the pile of furs and watched, impassive, as it set aflame. The fire spread and the heat grew uncomfortable, but Bilbo stood still, until his cushion, his bed of seven years, had begun to burn as well. Then he walked back to Thorin's side, noticing that Thorin was staring at him, but Bilbo had dreamed of this day for seven years, and he would not be deterred by a wary Dwarf King.

Oh, to see Azog's face when he discovered Bilbo gone...

For the first time in seven years, Bilbo felt true hope. It almost seemed too good to be true, but if this was real -- if he was to follow Thorin and escape with the other Hobbits, or at least _attempt_ to -- then Bilbo was happy to take this path, if it took him away from Azog. He had no idea what might happen after this -- in all of his daydreams, he only imagined life to the point of either his death or Azog's -- and any other future was impossible to him. One of them would die soon. That he promised himself.

In some way, he doubted he would make it out of these caves alive. Azog would surely order him dead or even kill him himself instead of allowing him to escape with his mortal enemy. Bilbo might even be captured again. Even if that happened, even if Bilbo was once again left to Azog's lack of mercy, he would consider it a victory, because the other Hobbits would be free. If they were saved, then Bilbo would waste no time in defying Azog and taking his own life. He almost looked forward to it, to Azog's expression upon seeing his favorite toy dying by his own hand.

Perhaps he was a bit twisted now, but seven years of bearing the pain of hundreds of Hobbits had changed him. Gone was the innocent boy of Bag-End, who pretended to go on adventures while bringing home more pretty rocks, carved branches, and small animals than his parents knew what to do with. Gone was the boy who had clung to his mother's skirts while his father scolded at him for being too Tookish. Gone was the boy who knew nothing more of sex than gentle tumbles with other lads in piles of hay, or sweet kisses with lasses behind the apple trees. That boy had died seven years ago, replaced by the _nûl-lûpûrz_ , not a boy any longer, who daydreamed of suicide and fed poison to his kin who wished the same.

On a whim he turned to Thorin and asked, "What day is it, do you know?"

Thorin was watching him, dark gaze thoughtful, but he only raised an eyebrow before replying, "It is the twenty-second of September, Master Bilbo."

"Oh," he said, distantly shocked. _What a lovely birthday present,_ he thought to himself, feeling a grin stretching on his dry lips. 

~

Thorin watched Bilbo, wondering what his expression meant. He was still shocked at the Hobbit's audacity for setting everything on fire, but he had held his tongue. He had almost shouted at Bilbo's actions, not wanting to attract any attention from the Orcs, yet in some part of his mind, he thought he could understand. This was a place Bilbo must hate, just as much as Thorin hated Azog, so Thorin merely shook his head and stepped out of the room, glancing at Bofur who gave him a nod. Good, so far they had escaped detection.

Bilbo followed him, his gaze drawn to the Warg's corpse, and beside them Bofur did a double take upon seeing the young Hobbit. Bofur's eyes, usually so kind and cheerful, widened with shock upon sliding his gaze down to Bilbo's stomach, and Bilbo crossed his arms low over his midsection, something like shame entering his dark eyes. Thorin gave the other Dwarf a look, but it did nothing to silence him.

"That must've hurt something fierce!" Bofur said without thinking, and Thorin scowled at him. Thorin really did appreciate his friend, but there were times when his tactless brain made Thorin want to shake him.

Beside him Bilbo held himself still, and Thorin glanced down at him, only to see a faint smile playing upon his lips. "It did," Bilbo said after a moment in an odd tone, and strangely enough, Bofur's cheeks reddened.

"Begging your pardon," he muttered, and Bilbo gave a small nod but said nothing in response.

Thorin shook his head and began walking quickly in the direction of the others, not wanting to spend any more time here. After a moment Bilbo and Bofur followed him, with Bofur taking up the rear point, his axe pulled out again. It only took a few minutes to reach the hall where the rest of their party was, and Thorin was glad to see that the Dwarves were already leading the Hobbits away to the hidden tunnels, their wrists free of their shackles and their expressions filled with wonder.

As they approached, a few of the Hobbit children spied them and shouted, drawing attention to them. The children ran to Bilbo and hugged his legs, babbling about the Dwarves in their midst, but Bilbo only smiled and knelt to hug them, messing their thick curls. "It's alright," he said to the children, who gazed up at him with near-reverential awe, "you can trust them. These Dwarves are good people."

Thorin watched as Bilbo comforted the children, something he seemed familiar with. It was then that Thorin noticed that compared to the rest of the Hobbits, the children looked relatively unscathed. All of the adult Hobbits had wounds or scars on their bodies, with dark stains on their ripped clothes, but the children had few such markings, barring the smudge of dirt here or there. This was not so for Hobbit children at most of the other Orc nests they had found, and Thorin found it odd. Were the Orcs in Azog's clan not drawn to children?

Finally the children were ushered back to the rest of the Hobbits, and Bilbo watched closely as they were led away, a line of tension in his thin shoulders. Thorin watched him out of the corner of his eye, interest piqued by this waif of a Hobbit, but soon he was distracted, as Gandalf appeared from the Hobbit hall.

The tall Wizard was muttering into his beard as he walked toward them, but then he did a quite peculiar act, even for a Wizard. Gandalf looked up as he approached Thorin, then faltered in his steps upon seeing Bilbo, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening. He looked completely flummoxed, and Thorin had never seen him like this before.

"Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf whispered, and beside Thorin, Bilbo went completely taut with shock. It wasn't unusual for Gandalf to name Hobbits that he recognized amongst the slaves, but Gandalf's tone seemed different this time, reverent even. Gandalf approached them slowly, kneeling down to their height and reaching up with a shaking hand to touch Bilbo's face, who stared up at him with wide eyes. Thorin watched them curiously, wondering what was so special about this Hobbit that Gandalf spoke to him with such fondness. His attention was caught by Balin a moment later, though, and he took Bofur with him to speak to his old friend, keeping an eye on the quiet conversation between Wizard and Hobbit.

~

When they saw Bilbo walking toward the large group, the Hobbits called for him, hope bright in their eyes. Bilbo took care to comfort the children and nod to his older neighbors and kin, knowing that just the simple reassurance would be enough for them. Behind him, Bofur muttered quietly that they were using some old tunnel systems to avoid the Orcs, and Bilbo was glad for it, that the gentle Hobbits would be kept away from the fighting.

He found himself lingering with Thorin and Bofur instead of joining the others, though. Perhaps staying beside the very Dwarf Azog had hated for so long would not be good for his health, should Azog discover them together, but Bilbo was nothing if not determined to infuriate Azog as much as possible. Let the bastard burn with rage at what his _nûl-lûpûrz_ , freed from the shackles of seven years of slavery, could do with freedom.

Bilbo was startled from observing the other Hobbits by a peculiar figure exiting the room where his kin had all slept. Turning his head, he saw that the man was very tall and wore a gray cloak, and when he noticed the pointy hat, he realized that this was a Wizard. Vaguely he remembered meeting a Wizard when he was a child, but that was a very long time ago and he had been a very different Hobbit then.

Then the Wizard saw him and spoke his name, and Bilbo froze. He stood very still as the Wizard walked to him and knelt before him, lifting a shaky hand to lay on his dirty cheek. The touch startled Bilbo even more -- it was warm and familiar, and looking up, a memory flashed through his mind, of a very tall fellow in gray leaning over him while he hid behind his mother's skirts.

So this was that Wizard. His name... it was Gandalf. This Wizard had known him -- had known his mother. Other memories rushed to the front of his thoughts, jumbled and confusing. Watching fireworks explode over the lake by the Party Tree; giggling as he was bounced on a bony knee, his fingers threading through a thick gray beard; snoozing in his mother's lap as she laughed, while a gravely old voice told a story; the smell of pipeweed drifting in the night wind. Yet they vanished as quickly as Bilbo thought of them. 

Such precious memories -- and Bilbo's eyes watered a bit, trying to grasp onto the memory of his mother's laughter, warm and sweet in his ears. His heart gave a pang, but he clenched his fists and held himself tall. He could not fall apart now, not when he was so close to freedom.

"You knew my mother," he said quietly, his voice breaking a bit, and above him Gandalf's beard quivered, his dark eyes hooded with regret.

"She was a wondrous lady," the Wizard said, just as quietly, and Bilbo felt another pang in his chest. His mother had been a fine Hobbit lady indeed; even when Bilbo had been but a fauntling, she'd had half the Shire in thrall with her, with her beauty and personality that was greater than any other Hobbit that lived there. It hurt to remember her -- to know that she was dead and gone; but Bilbo had tried to forget her, these past seven years, lest Azog find out and tear every memory of her from his mind.

"I could never find her, after the Shire was..." the Wizard trailed off, and Bilbo felt a strange brightness in his mind at the thought that someone who was not kin had looked for his mam, had cared enough for her to look for her remains in the blackened mess that was the Shire after its fall.

"She's gone," he whispered, and somehow his voice did not break under the weight of his words. He looked away as tears appeared in gray eyes that held more kindness than Bilbo had seen in seven years, far more than he even deserved. "We were brought here together after Shirefall. She didn't make it." _But I did_ , he thought, wishing that he had joined her in those first moments when Orcs had swarmed her.

"Oh, my poor boy," Gandalf whispered, and then he did something that Bilbo found very peculiar indeed.

He hugged Bilbo.

As soon as those huge, warm arms engulfed his little body, Bilbo panicked. Then he caught a whiff of pipeweed, and it somehow relaxed him, just a tiny bit, remembering it from his childhood. This person had known him, had told him stories and tucked him into bed and played with him, once upon a time. This Wizard had been friend to his mother -- and to him.

"It is alright now, Bilbo," the Wizard whispered, holding him tightly, and Bilbo felt a small part of himself crack beneath that gentle tone. He looked past Gandalf's shoulder but could not see any Hobbits, and most of the Dwarves were gone, save Thorin and a few of his companions. Nobody was looking at them save the Dwarf King himself, and Bilbo was caught by that blue, blue gaze, so impossibly gentle compared to the cruel eyes of his master.

Then Thorin looked away, and Bilbo closed his eyes tightly as he choked, a few sobs escaping his throat. But no, he could not let himself cry, not until it was all over and done with, not till Azog was dead or he was free himself, whether through Thorin saving him or by his own blade.

"It will be okay, my boy," Gandalf said softly, rubbing his back, and Bilbo hid his face in a gray shoulder, swallowing against the hot, dry feeling in his throat. He would not cry here. He _would not cry_ , not yet.

Yet a few tears leaked out anyway, and Bilbo let himself hide in Gandalf's arms for a few desperate moments, trying to regain control over himself. When finally he felt that he could breathe again without gasping, he drew back, his thin body trembling a bit as Gandalf patted his back before letting him go. A handkerchief -- _a handkerchief of all things_ \-- was offered to him, and Bilbo grabbed at the semblance of normality, turning away and carefully blotting at his eyes with clean cotton, feeling awkward using the cloth after years of relying on fur and dirty clothes to clean up messes. Yet he felt immensely grateful for the kindness.

Gandalf was looking past Bilbo, and Bilbo turned to see that the fire he had left in Azog's room had worsened, smoke pouring out from Azog's hall. _Good_ , he thought viciously, hoping that everything burned. Turning back, he hesitated before tucking the handkerchief in his pocket and walking over to Thorin, lifting his gaze almost shyly to look at the Dwarf King. But Thorin only glanced at him, as if he had not nearly broken down, and gestured to his companions.

"Master Bilbo, this is my friend and advisor Balin, my cousin Glóin, and our friend Bofur. This, my friends, is Bilbo."

Each of the Dwarves bowed and said, "At your service," leaving Bilbo to try to remember his manners.

After a moment he bowed back, feeling horribly underdressed, yet again he was grateful for the distraction, and the fact that Thorin was treating him like a normal person. "Bilbo Baggins... at your service," he said quietly, meeting each Dwarf's gaze and seeing no disgust there, only a polite respect and perhaps some worry. Thorin Oakenshield kept very good company, it seemed.

Thorin nodded, seemingly satisfied, and began to lead them in the same direction the others had gone, Gandalf following them silently. "We had best hurry before the Orcs return. A battle can distract them for only so long," the tall Dwarf said, and Bilbo nodded absently, his heart beating quickly in his chest, as he realized that soon, he would truly be free. Perhaps he would even be able to take his little sword and use it to -- 

Then Bilbo stopped in his tracks. _His sword! His rings! His books!_ "Wait!" he called desperately, and Thorin and the others stopped and looked back at him in surprise. "I have some -- belongings," he said, his cheeks heating up oddly.

Thorin stared at him, eyebrows raised. "But you set that room on fire," he said, sounding a bit bewildered.

Bilbo shook his head. "I hid them. They're from the treasure hold, which I guess you ought to know where it is, so you can find it later. I had a sword, and there were some other things -- please," he said, staring up at Thorin with wide eyes.

Thorin stared at him a moment longer, then exchanged glances with Gandalf. The others waited patiently, and finally Thorin nodded, turning to mutter something to Balin and the other Dwarves. The Dwarves gave Bilbo another strange look before continuing on their path, but Thorin and Gandalf stayed with him, and Thorin gave him a vague but tense smile.

"Lead the way, Master Baggins. But we must be quick," he said, and Bilbo could only stare at him for a moment, stunned that Thorin had used his proper name. Then he gathered himself, nodded, and darted off in the direction of the old stairs, hoping that the Dwarf and Wizard would be able to keep up with him.

"It's this way!"


	5. Hidden treasures

As they ran after the diminutive figure, Thorin cursed himself in his head for giving in to this foolish fancy. Azog and his clan could return at any moment, and they were rushing through barely lit halls for some trinkets? Yet Thorin could not deny Bilbo Baggins his belongings, not when the Hobbit had nothing else. The second those eyes had pierced him with that pleading look, he had wavered like a flame in the wind.

A glance at Gandalf had done nothing. Having known Gandalf for some time now, Thorin knew some of the Wizard's moods, and he could tell that right now Gandalf was seething. The Wizard was hiding it from the other Dwarves and the Hobbits, but there was a blistering rage in his gaze that had left Thorin feeling unsettled. An angry Wizard was not one he wished to cross, ever. Gandalf had not protested against this movement, either, as Thorin had hoped he would; it was as if he would do anything for this Hobbit, even at the risk of their lives.

Bilbo at least seemed to know his way around here well enough that they were fast about it. Deeper and deeper into the caverns he ran, climbing down stairwells and turning corners so fast Thorin had to call to him twice to wait for them. The light from Gandalf's staff helped them guide their way, along with a small torch Bilbo had snatched up, but otherwise it was very dark and eerie down here. Fortunately, Thorin had traveled enough mines and caves in his lifetime that he hardly noticed the difficulty.

Finally they came to a hall where a wide set of double doors that were just slightly ajar sat, and Bilbo led them to these doors, glancing warily beyond Gandalf into the darkness. "This is Azog's treasure room," Bilbo said quietly, and Thorin straightened, his gaze sharpening. If there were treasures here, they must have belonged to his kin long ago. He would have to tell Balin of this so that they could recover it after defeating Azog's clan.

But Bilbo did not open the doors, instead walking down the hall to a small hallway that Thorin had not noticed before and disappearing. Before Thorin could shout at him, he reappeared a moment later carrying a small chest. He walked back to Thorin and Gandalf and laid the chest down, hesitating before pushing it open.

Inside was a gleaming sword that looked to match Bilbo's height perfectly, along with a few golden trinkets and strangely enough, two ancient-looking books. As Bilbo grabbed the trinkets and lifted the sword out of the chest, Gandalf made a noise in his throat, leaning down to look at it.

"What a remarkable sword," the Wizard said, sounding astonished. "It looks just your size."

Bilbo gave the Wizard a small but shy smile. "It fits me perfectly. They had stolen it from some trolls some years ago, and it came with two others -- hey! Be careful with that!"

Thorin had lifted up one of the books and opened the delicate leather binding, his eyes widening with shock. He gave Bilbo a look, wondering if the Hobbit even knew how important this book was. "This is in Khuzdul. Where did you find it?" Carefully he set it back in the chest, wishing he had not picked it up so suddenly.

Bilbo glanced down at the book, a wary look appearing on his face. "There is a room down that way that must have been a library. Everything's crumbling apart now, but those and a few others were still intact. I like those because they mention dragons, though the writing is so faded that --"

Thorin could not help but interrupt him. "You can read this?" he said, his gaze narrowing as he stared at Bilbo.

The Hobbit seemed to flush, but the lighting was very low and Thorin could not see well. "There was a Dwarf that was brought here... he taught me the letters and a few words. He was planning an escape, and he thought I could help, if I could read the signs and hall names. It didn't really... well, he died not long after, and some of the letters, he hadn't taught me. Then I found the books, and I remembered enough to read some of the words. It helped that there were pictures, of course." 

Then Bilbo stopped speaking, for Thorin was staring at him in wonder. A Hobbit, learning their ancient language? They hardly ever taught it to outsiders anymore, though a few of their trading partners had picked up on some words, and friends of the Dwarves had learned some of it, over the years. Yet this ancient text... it must be over a thousand years old, and still this Hobbit had managed to learn from it. 

"You continue to surprise me, Master Baggins," he said quietly, and this time he could see when Bilbo flushed, a pleasant pink tickling the Hobbit's cheeks. Bilbo smiled at him, and Thorin smiled back at him without thinking, which made the Hobbit's cheeks turn a bit pinker.

Beside them, Gandalf cleared his throat, drawing the attention of both Dwarf and Hobbit. Thorin's smile faded and he gave Gandalf a questioning look, only for Gandalf to raise an eyebrow at him in return. Then the Wizard ignored him entirely and focused on Bilbo.

"Bilbo, you mentioned something about your sword that I would like to clarify. There were two others, you said?" the Wizard asked, looking curious.

Bilbo started, gripping the sword a bit tighter in his hand. "Oh, yes!" he said, brushing past Thorin and going to the door, which was held open by a small rope that twisted over the inner and outer handles of each of the doors, so that they could not close completely. It seemed that even the Orcs were not stupid enough to leave a Dwarf door closed.

Then Bilbo pushed the door open, and Thorin and Gandalf were greeted by the sight of a massive room piled with gleaming gold, shining gems, and all kinds of Dwarf relics from ages past.

~

Bilbo lingered in the doorway as Thorin and Gandalf entered the room, wide-eyed with awe at the piles of gold. He saw Thorin's attention focused on several boxes and Dwarven chests stacked against one wall, and Gandalf was busy looking over a pile of weapons nearby. He had seen this room countless times, having snuck in whenever he was not with the Hobbits and Azog did not need him, just as he had snuck into the old library many times. He had no concern for the gold or jewels, but he liked to look at the old Dwarf relics, tunics and weapons and axes of a race that ruled these mountains a thousand years ago. The Orcs had not cared for the library, which he kept closed so that they would not find it, and he had hidden even more items in there. The Orcs never noticed, stupid as they were.

"The library I mentioned," he said quietly, catching Gandalf's and Thorin's attention, "has a lot more of this. Not any of the gold, mind you, but... other things. Dwarf things... Hobbit things. Items that the Orcs stole from the people they attacked. I'll show you where that is, too."

Gandalf's eyes glittered as he looked at Bilbo, but Bilbo avoided his gaze, keeping an eye on Thorin. Thorin's expressions were impassive, but Bilbo thought he could detect consideration and respect in his mien. Thorin intrigued Bilbo, even though he hardly knew him, for all that he had heard Azog rant of the Dwarf King. Gandalf, as familiar as he was to Bilbo, was also just as unfamiliar -- but a part of Bilbo felt that he could trust these two. That was why he had told them of one of his secrets.

But not of the other two. He would tell no one of the black mushrooms, and something told him that for now, he should keep his other secret safe as well. The rings were tucked into his pocket with the handkerchief, and Bilbo hoped that neither Gandalf nor Thorin had seen them when he had opened the chest. He had tried to be quick about it, but Gandalf had been watching him appraisingly all this time, so he was not sure if he had gotten away with it. But he felt the need to protect the rings, so he would do so until the urge was gone. His instincts had not failed him yet.

"Here are the swords I mentioned," he said, moving past Gandalf to the far wall, where the Elvish swords lay on a heavy trunk. After giving the Dwarven relics one last look, Thorin followed him, and Gandalf walked to Bilbo's side, both leaning over the swords. Thorin reached forward first and picked up the longer of the swords, which gleamed in the light of Gandalf's staff.

Gandalf let out a soft exclamation. "Why, these are Elvish blades! They must have been made by the High Elves of old -- and you said they were in a troll hoard, of all places?" He picked up the thinner of the blades and held it up, pulling it partly out of its sheath. The weapons were still dusty from however many years they had remained in the trolls' ownership, but the blades were still sharp as though they had just been honed.

Beside him, Thorin gave a sound of disgust and made to throw the blade back onto the trunk, but Gandalf gave him a severe look. "You will not find a finer blade in all the land, Thorin Oakenshield, so do not toss that about like a wet rag!" he said in a scolding tone, and Bilbo had to look away briefly when Thorin glared up at Gandalf. He had known that Dwarves and Elves disliked each other, but to see it like this, especially with Gandalf acting like Thorin was a troublesome Hobbit child... it almost made him want to laugh.

But he did not laugh, and he watched as Thorin looked over the blade before he grudgingly accepted it. Both he and Gandalf took a moment to wipe the dust away, and once again Bilbo was made aware of how very underclothed he was compared to the other two. He had been like this for so long, amongst Orcs who wore little other than their armor, that he had long gotten used to feeling the air on his bare skin. Yet to see Thorin and Gandalf, wearing so much that only their faces and hands were bare... it made him feel naked. Moreso, he hated that his scars were visible, but past a few glances, Thorin and Gandalf had done nothing to make him feel uncomfortable. It was his own Baggins manners, old and dusty after so long disused, that made him want to put on real clothes and look presentable, especially in front of a Wizard and a King.

Finally they all walked out of the room, and Thorin looked up at the doors in consideration for a long moment. Then he pulled out a dagger and cut off the ropes on the handles, pushing the doors closed, and the three watched as the door faded into the wall, leaving only empty space.

"That will protect it for now," Thorin said, and Bilbo wondered if the Dwarves would be able to figure out the password, but then they were Dwarves -- undoubtedly they knew far more than Bilbo did of these halls. Then Thorin looked down at Bilbo and said, "Show us where this library is. We will not take anything, but I will send some of my men to retrieve all of the treasure later."

So Bilbo acquiesced and led Thorin and Gandalf to another hall nearby, carrying the little chest along with him, where he spoke the word "library" in Khuzdul, causing a tall door to appear in the wall. Both Wizard and Dwarf gave him another considering look, but Bilbo only shrugged and showed them in. The library inside was vast but covered in cobwebs, and what books remained were carefully stored in several chests that Bilbo kept in the middle of the floor, surrounded by several more Dwarven artifacts, and a few small chests that Bilbo had painstakingly filled with everything that the Orcs had stolen from the Hobbits. Bilbo set the small chest down with the others. Thorin and Gandalf were silent as they opened a few of the chests and looked over the ancient relics, but Thorin's eyes were bright when he looked at Bilbo at last.

"You did all this," he said quietly, and Bilbo felt his ears heat up.

"When my ma-- er, when Azog didn't need me, well... I spent a lot of time down here. It was better than letting them destroy everything," he finished feebly, his gaze dropping when Thorin's expression darkened at the mention of Azog.

"So you were his," the Dwarf King said lowly, and Bilbo could not tell if his tone was angry or disgusted, and he felt a part of himself shrivel up with shame. Then he lifted his gaze and glared at Thorin, clenching his fists at his side.

"Not by my choice. _None_ of us chose this. So don't you dare judge me," he started heatedly, but Thorin cut him off, holding up his hands.

" _No_ , Master Baggins -- Bilbo -- I am not... no. I am sorry, I meant no offense," the tall Dwarf said, and Bilbo closed his mouth quickly, staring at him. "I only meant... I wish I had come sooner," Thorin finished quietly.

Bilbo was speechless. He had no idea how to respond to Thorin -- to the very Dwarf who had been the cause, however little he realized it, of many nights of pain for Bilbo. Yet here was Thorin apologizing to him, showing regret for letting Azog own him for seven years. For a moment Bilbo wished to tell Thorin exactly how much Azog hated him and how often Azog's rage at Thorin's actions had caused pain for Bilbo -- but then he halted himself.

He did not know if Thorin understood just how much Bilbo had suffered, but he decided he did not care. He did not want Thorin or Gandalf to know -- he did not want _anybody_ to know of the atrocities he had committed. The other Hobbits knowing, that he would allow, because they loved him and accepted him no matter what he did, as they had had little other choice -- but he wanted the horrors of this time to stay secret as long as possible. The other Hobbits would never tell, and neither would he.

Bilbo opened his mouth to respond, to say something meaningless that would never convey how grateful he was to Thorin for coming to their rescue, nor would it even hint at the convoluted emotions he felt concerning Thorin's history with Azog -- when he heard a wild roar echo from the chambers above, and it sent pure fear straight into his heart.

_Azog knew he was gone._

Terror seized his chest. Bilbo clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide, and for a moment he could not breathe. A hysterical laugh bubbled up out of his throat, and he stepped back toward the door, lifting his wild gaze to the vaulted ceiling.

"He's so angry," he whispered, and dimly he noticed Thorin and Gandalf staring at him, their eyes wide. But he did not care -- he had to escape, _now_ \-- and he had already turned to run when someone caught his arm. He shrieked and tried to tear himself away, but whoever had him tugged him back until he hit a hard chest. He felt fur at his back and scented stone and musk, and he realized that it was Thorin. He panicked more when a thick arm wound its way around his middle.

Then Gandalf appeared in front of him, kneeling down again and lifting his hands to Bilbo's head, cupping his face in his soft hands. "We will not let him have you," the Wizard said gently, and Bilbo stopped struggling, his eyes fixed on Gandalf's kind gaze. Nobody had ever protected him before, not even the other Hobbits. No one had ever stood up to Azog -- but these two people might. This Wizard and the Dwarf behind him -- they might protect him, could maybe keep the monster at bay.

Thorin slowly let him go, but his hand lingered on Bilbo's back, and Bilbo turned his gaze on the Dwarf who had saved him. Thorin's blue eyes were hooded, but he nodded to Bilbo, and Bilbo clung to that reassurance. 

"We will protect you," Thorin said, sliding his hand up to grip Bilbo's shoulder, and Bilbo felt some of his hysteria seep away.

"Okay," he whispered, letting himself trust for the first time in seven years. If Thorin Oakenshield could not protect him, then no one could.


	6. A dream come true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Meanings:**  
>  _Mâdrol nûl-lûpûrz-izub!_ \-- Let my pain-bearer go!  
>  _Durinlûk_ \-- son of Durin  
>  _Thrakol nûl-lûpûrz-izub!_ \-- Bring my pain-bearer!  
>  _Azubuk!_ \-- Kill them!

Despite his vivid desire to escape, Bilbo was obviously terrified of Azog.

At the back of his mind, Thorin wondered just what Azog had done to leave the Hobbit so fearful that he instinctively tried to run upon hearing Azog's rage over his disappearance. The shoulder beneath his hand was trembling, like a rabbit caught in a wolf's predatory gaze. He wondered what would happen if he squeezed too hard -- would the Halfling shatter? -- as frail as the Halfling's body felt to his touch. 

Thorin was suddenly reminded of how very small and thin Bilbo was. How little did Azog feed his personal slave? Not that any of the other Hobbits were any better, from what he had seen, but with what he had experienced of Bilbo so far, from his actions and words... he thought Bilbo seemed much greater, much _more_ than his tiny body encased.

Never had a Hobbit intrigued him so much. Yet now was not the time for such thoughts -- they had to escape, _now_ \-- before the Orcs found them. He looked past Bilbo at Gandalf, whose gaze met Thorin's with a knowing glint.

"You remember some of these halls, Wizard," Thorin said quietly, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder again before letting go. "Can you lead us to the others? My men have surely escaped with the Hobbits by now, but we must do the same."

Gandalf nodded and looked back to Bilbo, giving him a reassuring smile before standing. "I do think so, now that I look about. I've been in this library before, long ago... so you should follow me. Bilbo, can you stay close? We can escape, but we must be quick and silent."

Bilbo, still trembling but no longer so tense, nodded once. "I can be both these things," he whispered, and Gandalf patted his cheek again.

"Good, good, my boy. Then come," the Wizard said, vanishing out the door. Thorin and Bilbo were swift to follow, gripping the glowing Elvish weapons tightly in their hands. The door disappeared behind them as it closed, protecting the treasures within.

They ran through the halls, Gandalf leading and Thorin right behind Bilbo, who despite his frailty and head wound was quick on his feet. They were as silent as possible, but a few times Thorin thought they were being followed -- but no, it was just the Orcs searching above for their lost slaves. The caves glittered with dust, glints of hard metals, and shiny black mold, reminding Thorin of how very old these caves were.

In the back of his mind, Thorin wondered how they would clean all this up. No doubt his people would be up for the challenge, but these tunnels were vast. They had already begun to clean up the Orc nests further north, and they had only barely scratched the surface of all of the mines of the Misty Mountains.

The Orcs had not gone too deeply into Moria's caves, though. Thorin supposed that was because of the Balrog, a horrible beast that lurked deep in the caves below, and the only reason they knew of it was because some of the Orcs had let the secret slip a few years ago. Gandalf had taken it upon himself to deal with the Balrog, for Wizard reasons that Thorin did not fully understand, but it still left Thorin and the rest of his army wary. 

Durin's Bane had existed in the Misty Mountains for millennia before his people had woken it; who knew of its power, or how deep its reach was. They did not even know if the Balrog would surface; perhaps it would stay deep in its caves below, and the Dwarves could reclaim the caves above. Yet no one would ever rest easy, knowing of Durin's Bane below. Hopefully the power of Gandalf could defeat it. But Thorin did not know what would happen, and he only hoped that his people would be spared the Balrog's brutal fury.

The blue light from their Elvish blades had faded long ago, and Gandalf allowed them to pause, leaning against a nearby wall as Bilbo gasped for air and Thorin breathed in deeply through his nose to ease his thudding heart. The Hobbit stood very near to Thorin, clutching his little sword and staring behind them, and Thorin could only imagine what he was thinking.

"How close are we?" he asked of Gandalf, who muttered and looked beyond the glow of his staff into the darkness.

"Close enough. We may have taken a bit of a roundabout way to get there, but I know these tunnels and we are not far from the camp, not far at all. Just a bit of walking, the rest of the way," the Wizard finally said after a bit of blustering, and Thorin felt a scowl appear on his face.

"We are not _lost_ , are we, Gandalf?" he asked slowly. Beside him Bilbo turned to look at them.

Gandalf hemmed and frowned back at him, but Thorin's stare was relentless. "No, Mister Oakenshield, I think we are not lost! A Wizard is never lost, you should know. I know exactly where we are, and I'm telling you, we are --"

His words were cut off by a hair-raising cry that echoed in the caves behind them, making all three turn sharply. Thorin pulled the Elvish blade from his sheath and cursed when he saw that it was glowing.

"Azog," whispered Bilbo, his face white in the pale blue light.

"-- being followed!" finished Gandalf quickly, turning and taking off running again. Thorin quickly resheathed his sword and shoved at Bilbo, who dug in his heels for only a moment before the fear took him and he shot off after Gandalf.

They ran through the halls, but now their plight rang horribly true: they were being hunted. Orc calls echoed against the stone walls, and they heard drums beating in the distance. _Orc war drums_ , thought Thorin. Azog was serious in chasing after them. Did he know Thorin was here?

After what felt like forever, but must have been only a short time, they came to a long, crumbling bridge that stretched across a vast cavern. Thorin recognized the cave as one that they had crossed earlier to sneak into Azog's clan nest, only they had used a different path that wound around the bottom of the cavern. They were close, then -- but they had to escape the Orcs.

Without stopping they ran across the bridge. It was as they were nearing the other side that whistles in the air caught their attention, and Thorin grabbed Bilbo and jerked him aside just before an arrow would have thudded into his head. "Go!" he shouted, and Bilbo stumbled forward, never looking back as they reached a landing with crumbling stairs and began to climb. More arrows sang in the air, Orcs howling behind them, before a roar silenced every Orc that was chasing them.

" _Mâdrol nûl-lûpûrz-izub!_ "

In front of him, Bilbo froze, and they stumbled as they reached the top of the stairs. Thorin turned slowly and was met with a sight he had hated for over a century. Azog stood at the edge of the bridge, his clan shifting behind him but oddly silent, and Azog was staring not at him, but at the Hobbit beside him, pale eyes wide. Bilbo was frozen in pure fear, and Thorin pushed the Hobbit behind him, meeting Azog's gaze with a hateful glare.

" _Azog,_ " he growled, and Azog's gaze sharpened as he recognized Thorin.

" _Durinlûk_ ," the pale Orc said softly, and Thorin felt rage beneath his skin, burning to rupture and send him flying at Azog, to kill him once and for all.

A hand on his shoulder stayed him, and he glanced back to see Gandalf looking past him, the Wizard's expression dark. "Now is not the time," the Wizard said quietly, and Thorin nearly shoved him away and leapt from the stairs... but then he felt something trembling at his back. He turned and looked behind him, and he saw Bilbo hunched against the stairs, blue-grey eyes wide with dilated pupils, his haunted stare fixed on Azog. He looked back and saw Azog returning the stare, and slowly he pushed his temper down, reminded that right now, they could not afford to clash with his enemy. Their battle would come later, with his brethren around him and Azog's clan dying at their feet -- not on this tiny bridge where there was no way to fight him.

Gandalf rose and strode past him down the stairs, fixing Azog with a dark look. "You will never have him again, Azog the Defiler," he said, voice thundering across the cavern.

Azog looked murderous, and he held out one pale clawed hand, his eyes widening. " _Thrakol nûl-lûpûrz-izub. Azubuk!_ " With that order, the Orcs screeched and began to race along the bridge, but Gandalf was one step ahead of them. Taking three quick strides forward, he lifted his staff and rammed it into the bridge, a bright light erupting from the stone on top and sending the Orcs flying and the bridge ahead of him crumbling. Quickly the Wizard turned back and ran to them, and Thorin pushed Bilbo up and half-carried him the rest of the way up the stairs, vanishing into the corridor beyond.

When the light from Gandalf's staff faded, all three were gone, and Azog roared with rage, the scream echoing across the caverns and sending shivers through every being that heard it.

~

Bilbo was numb from seeing Azog.

Twice Azog had called for his return. Twice Azog had met his gaze, and twice he had seen something strange in that pale glare that had haunted him for seven years. Pleading? Worry? He did not know. He did not want to care, but Azog's face stayed at the front of his thoughts, as they ran deeper into the ancient halls. The glows faded from their swords and the echoes of war drums disappeared, but they were still fast, until finally Bilbo could hear noise up ahead that sounded of many voices talking at once, and of clangs of steel and the crackling of fire.

They left the corridor they had been traversing and came upon a massive camp that was filled with Dwarves, almost all of them covered in thick armor, with roaring fires, huge tents, and makeshift armories and forges. The sight of it might have taken his breath away, had Bilbo not been so preoccupied with his thoughts.

What did catch his attention was the cry that rang out when the closest members of the camp -- there must have been _thousands_ of Dwarves here -- recognized Thorin and Gandalf. Not a little attention was paid to Bilbo as well, and he let himself hide behind Thorin, whose height and heavy armor were more than enough to keep the gazes from following him.

Thorin strode forward to meet his kin, and Bilbo lingered behind with Gandalf, who let him hide in the folds of his robes as they walked into the camp. He did not want to meet anybody -- he still could not believe what had happened. Azog had seen him, had nearly caught him -- and he had escaped. 

Worse, he believed that Gandalf had understood what Azog had said. _His pain-bearer._ Would he ever be free of Azog? He could not tell. Seeing the Dwarves bowing to Thorin, he was struck by how dreamlike this felt. Perhaps it a dream -- perhaps he had not escaped Azog, and this was his nightmare. To taste freedom in his dreams, but never to realize it in reality.

Thorin was speaking to several Dwarves, some of whom looked quite bloody and bandaged, and Bilbo could barely hear him above the noise of the army. He could barely understand Khuzdul anyway, but he caught a few words -- Orcs, hall, escape -- the ones that his Dwarf friend had taught him. Then Thorin was silent as the tallest Dwarf, who was bald with inked markings on his head, began to speak, nodding and looking satisfied, then vaguely anxious.

But Bilbo was quickly growing tired, and he wondered if perhaps he could go find a nice rock to sit on for a while. He wondered where the other Hobbits were, if they were okay -- and he wished for a blanket or a coat or something, to hide his scarred body. Gandalf kept him close, and Bilbo was grateful for it, as nobody paid him much attention when there was much more of a Wizard to look at than there was of a tiny Hobbit.

Finally Thorin finished speaking with his kin and walked back to them, his blue gaze finding Bilbo's. "Your kin arrived safely, and they are being treated in a tent down that way," the King said, gesturing down one of the camp's pathways. "I must meet with my generals, but you are more than welcome to rest here, Bilbo Baggins. We have food and clothing for you, and they have set up a bath tent as well. My healers will want to take a look at your head, too." Here the tall Dwarf hesitated, and Bilbo could only stare at him, unable to find any words to say. "If you have any need... do not hesitate to find me," Thorin said finally, and had he any feelings left, Bilbo might have felt grateful. A King did not normally give such an offer.

But Bilbo could feel nothing but the pain in his cheek and the side of his head. He felt the pain in his feet from running for so long, and he felt pain in his heart, though he could not understand why. Here he was, free -- but Bilbo could barely make heads or tails of it. It was as if his mind was muted, letting his senses give only the barest of information.

Maybe he was in shock.

Thorin seemed to be waiting for a reaction, so Bilbo gave a small nod, and he caught a faintly worried gaze before Thorin returned the nod and turned from him. He watched the King under the Mountain walk away, disappearing into the ranks of Dwarves who parted for him and bowed, and Bilbo felt some part of him tremble. He did not want Thorin to go.

But Thorin's visage soon faded, and Gandalf gently urged him toward the Hobbits' tent, protecting him from the curious gazes of dozens of Dwarves. Then he entered the tent, to find all of his friends and kin from the Hobbit hall of Azog there, wearing proper clothes and looking freshly clean, eating bowls of hot food while Dwarf healers muttered to them to _hold still_. The children were laughing and running about, while every face of the adults and tweens showed sharp relief, mixed in with the exhaustion and hunger.

Bilbo stood in the entryway for a long moment, and slowly his shoulders, so tense from hearing Azog scream for him, began to relax. Then one of the children spotted him and cried out, and everyone looked up.

" _Bilbo!_ "

And Bilbo was ushered into the warmth of the Hobbits, who embraced him and held him close, several of the children pulling on his hands. They babbled in his ear and told him of the Dwarves' kindness, of the dark halls they had walked through and of the hot stews, full of carrots and potatoes, _real carrots, Bilbo_ \-- and then the tears that he had pushed away for what felt like forever began to spill down his cheeks.

He could not help but cry. Warm hands patted his cheeks and messed his curls, and he was led to a bed where someone pulled him close and held him. He hid his face in their neck and sobbed, unable to believe that they were really here, and it seemed like every Hobbit there touched him or petted his curls or rubbed his back, reassuring him that this was true, that it was not a dream and that he was no longer Azog's slave.

Finally the sobs began to recede, and gently Bilbo was led from the tent to another where a Dwarf with very long braids carefully struck the shackles from his wrists and neck, tossing the chains into a bin with a loud clatter. Then Bilbo was led to another tent, where he was given a bucket of hot water and a bar of soap. One of his kin -- he thought it might have been one of his Brandybuck cousins -- helped him bathe, washing his back as he scrubbed his front, and the smell of the suds -- lemon, his brain supplied for him -- stuck to the front of his mind. He had always liked to use lemon on his fish in evening meals, but now all he could think about was how strong it smelled, how good it felt to be clean.

His cousin poured water over his head, and Bilbo watched as the dirty water ran down the hill they were on. He had not been clean in seven years. He looked down at his skin, seeing no dirt or blood or any other blemishes other than his scars, and he felt that he could cry all over again.

But soon a towel was wrapped around him and clean clothes were handed to him. A white shirt, gray Hobbit pants, a heavy blue sweater, even smallclothes -- all were so soft that Bilbo's eyes watered immediately. He lifted the pile and brushed the cloth against his cheek, a small sob escaping his throat. His cousin squeezed his shoulder then left, allowing him privacy for the first time since he had arrived.

Slowly, with painstaking care, he dressed himself in the soft clothes which were just slightly too big for him, but they fit well enough that Bilbo did not care if they hung a bit off his frame. He stood still for a few moments, hugging himself and enjoying the feel of soft cotton sliding against his skin which had been left naked for so long. The golden rings he had kept hidden in his dirty shorts were tucked into a new pocket in his clean pants, and absently, Bilbo combed wet curls out of his face.

This was not a dream.

He was free.

He was truly free. There were real clothes on his body, his skin had a lingering scent of lemon and lye, and Azog was nowhere nearby. All of his fellow Hobbits were alive and safe, and not one had died, not one had been recaptured, even _he_ had not been recaptured, was not left to Azog's fury --

Some part of him knew that there was still a battle to come and that he would not truly rest until he saw Azog dead, or until he himself was dead, but Bilbo was, for the first time in seven years, clean and clothed, and soon he would be fed and allowed real sleep.

It was not a dream. He was _free_. Thorin had kept his promise: he had protected Bilbo from certain death and from Azog's fury, at least for the moment, and Bilbo wished he could go find Thorin and thank him. But he knew that the leader of this massive army would be impossibly difficult to locate, let alone speak to, so he let himself be led back to the tent of his kin, melting beneath the happy smiles and hopeful chatter of his fellow Hobbits.

_They were free._


	7. In the middle of the night

When at last Bilbo lay down to sleep, on a bedroll shared with one of his cousins and at least two of the children, he was too tired to think much past _how lovely, this pillow is quite soft_ and _I wonder if that's singing outside_. Yet Bilbo fell asleep almost immediately, too tired from running around all day with an aching head and an empty stomach, and for a while, he was content.

Yet he dreamed of things that stretched impossibly large in the distance. Bilbo had only ever dreamed of the past, of his mother and father, of the Shire as it had been, but these dreams were different. They held a different quality, less warm and soft like his dreams of before, but just as lovely, just as vivid -- yet somehow Bilbo did not realize he was dreaming.

He dreamed of a Hobbit hole on a hill, of laughing children and wild birthday parties and of his cousins kissing in the shadow of a mountain. He dreamed of a lady in white naming him _bearer, of things seen and also unseen_. He dreamed of a black land that reeked of evil, of a gold ring disappearing into molten fire. He dreamed of kneeling before a great throne with a shining gem, presenting a gold ring to a King with blue, blue eyes.

Such impossible things. His last dream was of a deep chuckle in his ear and thick fingers curling into his palm, the scent of stone and fire -- and then he woke, thoughts muddled with a sense of loss. Had someone said his name?

He heard soft snoring beside him and looked over, seeing his cousin on his right side with two of the children clinging to his left side. Beyond them were the rest of the Hobbits, all sprawled out on makeshift cots and bed rolls, covered in blankets and tucked up together, no Hobbit more than a few inches from another one. He was deep in the middle of the group, as if every Hobbit had simply fallen asleep around him, and it made him feel warm and wanted again.

The thoughts of his dreams faded to the back of his mind, and for a long while, he forgot that he ever had such dreams, too busy with the present to think of anything beyond protecting his kin and seeing the last of Azog's days -- and beyond that, learning to live again.

~

Though Thorin was busy for every moment after he left Bilbo to Gandalf's care, he kept a thought spared for the Hobbit in the back of his mind. Balin had taken to the news of the treasure room and recovered library with glee. Dwalin had reported victory with their battle, though the Orcs had retreated too quickly and would no doubt attack again. They had lost many warriors, though, poisoned by Orc blades and arrows, or simply slaughtered in battle. That evening, the Dwarves sang songs of mourning and wrapped the bodies in black cloth saturated with oils and salts, to be taken back to their families.

In the morning the Hobbits would be led away from the battles to the West Gate, where they would be escorted back to the rest of their people. With them would travel the heavily injured to find healing in the nearest camp further north in the mountains. Thorin wanted as few casualties as possible. The skirmish that Dwalin had led was simply a diversionary tactic that had used only a small portion of their power, so that they could rescue the Hobbits and scope out the enemy's hold. The information Gloin and Balin had put together from searching the Orc-infested halls would greatly improve their chances.

He knew that Azog would have allies that would come to his aid, and he knew that his Dwarves would crush them. It would be a long battle, though, with no few deaths on his hands, but his people had accepted this inevitability long ago when he had first issued a summons for able warriors. They had lost many already, but many more innocent lives would be lost if the Orcs were left to roam the Misty Mountains freely. Already they had torn asunder the home of Hobbits, a folk so gentle that they had not even fought in a war in many, many generations.

It was very late, probably the same as very, very early, and Thorin was standing in his tent looking over a rough map Balin had produced of the Orc nest they would invade the next day, when he heard a throat clear nearby. He looked up to see Gandalf standing at the entrance of his tent, leaning heavily on his staff and looking rather worn.

"Gandalf," Thorin said, rolling up the map and going to pour the Wizard a cup of water, "how are the Hobbits? What did the healers say?" He thought of Bilbo and the dark wound on his head, the bruise on his cheek, the dark circles under his eyes and the barely healed scars on his thin body.

Gandalf took the offered cup and sank onto a stone, drinking deeply before sighing and looking at Thorin. "They all rest now. None of them have serious injuries or illnesses... nor even have as many problems as one would expect. The healers want them to rest more, but I know that Hobbits are hardy creatures, and I believe they will be alright if we can get them to the West Gate."

Blast the Wizard. He wanted to know more of one Hobbit in particular, which he suspected that Gandalf knew, but he did not begrudge this information. "We will see to their needs. Were there enough clothes for them? I can have the seamsters create more."

Gandalf set the cup aside and gave Thorin a faint smile, but Thorin could see dark thoughts in his eyes. "There were just enough articles of clothing for every Hobbit. They were all very relieved... just as the others were," he said quietly, no doubt thinking of the dozens of Hobbits they had already saved and escorted back to the West.

Thorin nodded solemnly, still horrified that such a tragedy had befallen such a race. In years past he had thought poorly of Hobbits, for all that they were gentle and did not train for war or create anything more than good food, catchy songs, and detailed woodcraft. In the last few years, though, he had seen the strength and tenacity of Hobbits who had been brought to their lowest and had survived. 

He had a faint idea of what the Hobbits had gone through -- he had heard whispers of suicide, of falling asleep one night and never waking the next morning, of torture unimaginable at the hands of Orcs. Elves and Men had fallen to lesser tortures. Denied basic dignity, clothing, proper food, even sunlight for years -- yet somehow the Hobbits had survived, and merely hours later could be found laughing and singing of a hopeful future.

These Hobbits were no different, he thought, and they had been enslaved the longest. He watched Gandalf for a moment before asking, hoping for a casual tone, "And what of your friend Mister Baggins? Did the healers look at his head?"

Gandalf lifted his gaze to stare at Thorin for a long moment, during which Thorin did not twitch or shift his weight, and finally the Wizard said, "Bilbo will be fine. They wrapped his head with a salve and put him to rest quite quickly after they fed him. Such an astonishing boy... I could scarcely believe my eyes, seeing him in that hall."

Something in the Wizard's tone made Thorin wary. There was that disbelief again, the same bewilderment he had seen in Gandalf's gaze when he had laid eyes on Bilbo earlier. What was it about this Hobbit that was so different from the others? It was not just the horrible scar on Bilbo's stomach or his defiant actions in protecting the belongings of Dwarves and Hobbits.

There was something _more_ to Bilbo Baggins, and Thorin wished to understand exactly what it was.

Gandalf was shaking his head, his gaze saddening with ancient thoughts. "That poor, poor boy... what he must have suffered, at the hands of the Defiler."

Mentioning Azog made Thorin breathe in quickly and straighten. "What did that monster do to him?"

Gandalf glanced at him briefly but did not seem to see him. "Did you notice, Thorin Oakenshield, that the children were scarcely harmed here? And that even the older Hobbits were still well, for all that they were hungry and scarred?"

Thorin stared at Gandalf, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you mean to say, Gandalf?"

"I did not think of it until I saw the children," Gandalf whispered, as if he did not hear Thorin. "None of them had marks on them from Orcs. Not a single child had a scar or wound, and _none_ of them had been defiled. Who protected them? Orcs have no care whether a Hobbit stands in its way. It will reach its target no matter the prey, whether old or young... yet none of these children were harmed. How?"

Slowly Thorin nodded, turning a hooded gaze on the tent entrance. "I had noticed that," he said quietly. "What did you make of it?"

But Gandalf did not say anything more on the subject. He nearly bowed his head as if to weep, his tall hat covering his eyes. "My poor, dear boy," the Wizard whispered, and Thorin was tempted to ask him again, of what he had meant, but something held his tongue. This was setting off alarms in the back of his head. He had wondered why the children had not been harmed, why they called Bilbo "pain-bearer," when that name had been whispered among all of the Hobbits for years now.

It was on the edge of his mind, a great realization which would shake the foundations of his beliefs on Hobbits, when suddenly Gandalf stood and shook himself, as if chasing away the dark thoughts in his mind, and the same thoughts faded to the back of Thorin's mind, to be explored on another day.

"I will wake the Hobbits later and help them ready for their journey," the Wizard said, glancing sidelong at Thorin. "If you wish to speak to them, I suggest you do it just before their departure. The escort will be prepared?"

"Yes," Thorin found himself saying, though he eyed Gandalf suspiciously. He did not like how Gandalf had changed the subject and made him ignore his worries, but he would let it go for now. "I will do so in a few hours, then. We will protect them, Gandalf, as we have protected all the others. No Hobbit shall die in this war, not after regaining their freedom."

Gandalf gazed at him another moment, then he nodded in acceptance, trusting in Thorin's words. So far, Thorin had not let him down once. "Very well. I wish still that you had requested the aid of the Elves --"

Thorin groaned. "Not this again, Wizard --"

Gandalf continued as if Thorin had never spoken. "But I see now that the march of the Dwarves to reclaim Moria is not to be shared with other races. You have kept every promise you have given me since the start of this war. Every Hobbit has gone home alive, with clothes and promises of aid. Instead of rushing in blindly, as your predecessors might have done, you have paced yourself and thought on every detail of this march thoroughly, down to the last soldier. I commend you, Thorin Oakenshield, and I am sorry for pushing you so, on the matter of the Elves."

Thorin was silent as he absorbed Gandalf's words, the apology ringing in his ears. Then he inclined his head in acceptance, the frown fading from his mien. "I wish to thank you as well, Gandalf, for staying with us as you have. Though we have not seen eye to eye on every part of this journey, you are still a valuable companion to this march. I am... sorry, as well, for my obstinance."

Gandalf gave him a small smile. "You are a fine King, Thorin son of Thráin. I am glad that the Hobbits have an ally in you and your kin."

Humbled yet disinclined to show it, Thorin nodded once again, averting his gaze to the makeshift table where his plans and maps were. "The Hobbits are... they are too gentle, but they have proven to be capable. I regret that we did not act sooner against the Orcs. We had thought of retaking these mountains for years, yet we only do it after the Orcs have acted against the Halflings. That... bothers me, more than I can express. If only we had marched sooner --"

Gandalf interrupted him, his voice quiet but firm. "No one could have predicted the actions of the Orcs, Thorin. You are no more to blame than the Rangers of the North, who were supposed to protect the Shire but were distracted by Azog's son from Grunabad. This was a cunning feat of the Orcs, but then they were always known for their terrible acts of war. None of the great leaders of Middle Earth anticipated this."

The Wizard stood and walked over to the table, looking down at the map of Middle Earth that lay in the center. His voice grew somewhat distant as he continued speaking, long fingers reaching down to trace the ridge line of the Misty Mountains. "Every nation has sent aid, in food, clothing, and volunteers to help the Hobbits find a new home. The Thain has not decided where they will go, and while they wait in the shadows of the ruined town of Bree... I know not where they could go that they would be safe. The Shire was a perfect home for them, and it is destroyed. The fields are black with death, the gentle hills torn apart... no green will grow there now."

Thorin reached over to point at the fields that lay below the ruins of Tharbad. "They could settle here, near the nations of Men. They would be close to my kin in the Blue Mountains and protected by the armies of Men."

Gandalf shook his head, his beard brushing the worn wood. "No, the Men will not cross the mountains just to protect the little folk, and the Hobbits have always been wary of the big folk who walk around them. Perhaps on the coast near the Elves..." He traced the edge of the Blue Mountains near Harlindon, where Thorin knew an Elf city to rest. He twitched, shifting his finger to the Blue Mountains themselves.

"And near my kin, again. Linnar's folk have promised to watch over any Hobbit settlement that may be founded near there. Many of them are here now, and they feel just as strongly about the Halflings that Durin's folk do. If we establish a strong enough settlement in the Misty Mountains, as well, we will watch over them. We owe them that much."

Gandalf turned a crinkling smile on Thorin, though his gaze was sad. "You have promised the Hobbits so much, Thorin Oakenshield, though they are not your kin and you truly owe them nothing, as this was not your fault. But I think they are grateful for it, and it will be good to see Hobbits and Dwarves looking after each other. I think... you have much to learn from them, as they will learn a great deal from you."

Thorin nodded gruffly, clasping his hands behind his back and looking up to meet Gandalf's eyes. "I am glad for the opportunity... but I regret the circumstances that brought this about," he said quietly, and Gandalf nodded.

"Just so," he responded, before nodding once and walking to the entrance. "I will be off for a bit, but I will return in time to wake the Hobbits and help send them on their way. Good night, Thorin. I suggest you get a bit of sleep before tomorrow."

Thorin shook his head a bit, a rare smile touching his lips. "We both know better than that, Wizard. Good night." He watched Gandalf leave, his smile slowly fading, as his thoughts returned to the Hobbits and the conversation that he and Gandalf had not shared. Gandalf was very protective of the Hobbits, but he seemed even more protective of Bilbo Baggins, and Thorin wondered why. What was the Wizard not telling him?

That question would plague him for a long time yet, and Thorin Oakenshield would get no sleep that night.

Though he would be glad for it, as only hours later, he would receive a visitor.

~

Waking in a pile of sleeping Hobbits may have been nice for the company and comfort, but escaping them was a test of Bilbo's not inconsiderable skill in sneaking.

After several minutes of prying off clinging Hobbit children, stepping around bony elbows, and nearly squashing the old Mother Brandybuck's nose, Bilbo was free of his kin, and he gladly escaped out of the tent into cool air. He breathed in a deep sigh of relief and looked around, seeing that the camp was very quiet compared to the noise of it when he had first come here but a few hours ago. A nearby Dwarf looked at him for a long moment but only nodded to him, and hesitantly Bilbo nodded back before looking around.

He began to stroll along the edges of the camp, taking care to avoid the tents with the loudest snores, and as he walked he felt a knot of anxiety lodge itself into his stomach. He could see scouts and watchers at the passageways all around the cave system, but he was beginning to feel vulnerable here, knowing that Azog could come after them at any time. A Dwarf army would not have chosen a location like this without thinking of safety and defense, though, so Bilbo did not let himself worry too much. Instead he walked, hoping to burn off some of his distress, at least for now.

He had not slept much, but he had rested well, and after a good meal and the heavenly washing he'd had, Bilbo was feeling much better. His head had a bandage on it from one of the Dwarf healers, who had clucked over him much like one of his aunts might have and muttered about stubborn Kings under his (her?) breath, but Bilbo had paid it no mind. There was only a faint ache now, so he supposed that the salve was working and that he would not need to worry about it for now.

He was nearing the center of the camp now, and as he passed a lit tent, he heard something clunk against the ground inside, and then a curse in Khuzdul. The voice made him pause -- he recognized it. Though the guards were definitely watching him now, he crept closer to the tent and peered past the cloth covering the doorway.

The tall figure of his Dwarf savior was straightening from picking something off the ground. A cup, then, and the ground was wet too. Inside the tent, Thorin Oakenshield gave the cup a scornful glare before setting it down, and Bilbo reached up to hide a smile.

But he must have made a sound, because Thorin turned around to stare at the entryway, blue eyes narrowing. "Do I have to send the whole lot of you on a patrol around the camp?" the Dwarf King asked in a near-growl, and before Bilbo could flee, he had stalked to the cloth covers and pushed them apart. "I will not _sleep_ no matter how much you hover -- oh, it's you." He stared down at Bilbo, looking a bit baffled.

Sheepishly, Bilbo lifted a hand in a small wave, feeling his cheeks heat up. "Er... sorry, I did not mean to..."

Thorin glanced beyond Bilbo and gave a glare, and Bilbo looked back to see some of the guards shifting at the edges of the pathways between tents. Then most of them turned and marched off, and Thorin gave a low sigh.

"There is nothing to apologize for, Master Baggins. Come in." Thorin stepped back and held the cloth door open, and after a moment of hesitation, Bilbo stepped into the tent, which was considerably warmer than the cave outside. Thorin gave the lingering guards another glare before letting the cloth covers fall together again, and he walked over to a table covered in maps, his gaze finding Bilbo's easily.

Dwarf and Hobbit stared at each other, and Bilbo was eerily reminded of when Thorin had first found him. Thorin's expression did not have the shock of before, but his gaze held consideration, and he glanced over Bilbo as if to make sure that all of him was there. His blue gaze lingered on the bandages on Bilbo's head, then on the blue sweater sloping off his shoulder, and the Hobbit felt a little bit exposed even with the thick clothes on his body, with Thorin looking at him like that.

Finally the Dwarf King looked away and went to fill two cups from a pitcher. "How is your head?" He offered one of the cups to Bilbo, and Bilbo took it without thinking.

Sipping from the wooden cup revealed cool, crisp water, for which Bilbo was very thankful. "It does not hurt much anymore. Whatever your healers put on it worked quite well," he said quietly, his gaze staying on Thorin.

Thorin nodded and met his gaze again. "That would be one of Óin's salves. He is a remarkable healer, with a wide knowledge of herbology and pharmacy. All of the salves, or I suppose they're calling them 'ointments,' were devised by him," the Dwarf said.

Bilbo's lips twitched. "Ointments? Isn't that a bit..."

Thorin seemed to sigh. "Yes, well, try telling him that. His brother is no less stubborn... you met him earlier. Glóin."

Bilbo could not help but smile now. He liked hearing of these Dwarves that he had not met; it made him feel normal again, to be sharing small talk, even though it was with a King. He wanted to ask Thorin many things, to know more about their march and what had happened to the other Hobbits in the Orc clans further north, but he did not know where to begin.

Thorin watched him for a moment, as if sensing his bemusement, and gave an odd half-smile that Bilbo nevertheless admired. "But I do not think you came here to listen to me complain about my kin," Thorin said, and Bilbo's smile turned a bit wry.

"Truth be told, Your Majesty, I did not come here for any particular reason. I was just out wandering... and you caught my attention," he said, and Thorin raised his eyebrows, a vaguely worried expression touching his blue gaze. 

"Could you not sleep? I can ask them to send some more blankets over," Thorin said, setting his cup down, and quickly Bilbo held up his hands.

"Oh, no, everything in the tent was fine. It was just..." he trailed off, his gaze dropping to his cup. "I... just could not sleep that well," he finished quietly, and after a moment of silence he looked up to see Thorin watching him.

"I know that feeling quite well," the tall Dwarf said, and Bilbo was reminded of what Thorin had been saying when he found Bilbo standing outside his tent. 

_His poor soldiers must be worried about him,_ Bilbo thought, and the thought made him wistful for his cousins and kin who had fretted over him when he had returned. He gave Thorin a small smile, feeling a bit shy to have something in common with the King, and after a moment Thorin returned it.

"It would have been better for you to sleep more, but I imagine that until everything is over, sleep will be a long time in coming," Thorin said quietly, stepping closer to Bilbo who had to tilt his head up to look at him.

Bilbo gave a small shrug, his fingers tracing the edges of his cup. "That's just the way it is, I guess. The same could be said for you, Your Majesty," he said quietly.

Thorin made a noise in his throat, setting down his cup and turning his gaze on the maps on his desk. "Seeing my enemy again will do that," he said after a long moment, and Bilbo followed his gaze to the maps, his eyes widening a bit. He had seen maps of Middle Earth before, but his gaze was drawn unerringly to a familiar spot west of the Misty Mountains, circled with black.

_The Shire._

Without really thinking about it, he reached out to trace the black mark. He felt a bit ill just looking at it, a vague memory of black skies brushing his thoughts, before he drew his hand away and drank deeply from his cup, the cold water settling in his stomach and soothing some of his anxiety. When he looked up, Thorin was watching him, blue gaze dark.

"I will do everything in my power to ensure that you and the Hobbits return safely to your kin," the Dwarf King promised quietly.

Bilbo gazed at him for a long moment, his expressions softening a bit with a faint smile. Thorin Oakenshield intrigued him a great deal, and strangely, wildly, Bilbo trusted him. He trusted Thorin to keep his promises, as he already had, and as he would in the future.

"I believe you," he said simply, and he admired the way Thorin's gaze warmed and softened his stern mien. Oh, how Thorin intrigued him, despite his conflicting feelings toward the Dwarf King. Azog must be fuming right now, to know that his favorite pet was walking and talking with the hated scion of Durin's line.

Then Thorin said something which made Bilbo's anxiety nearly double.

"You should return to your kin and rest more, Master Baggins," Thorin said, looking back at the map. "When everyone has woken and the healers have checked their wounds, you will all be taken to the West Gate of Moria. My Dwarves will lead you back to where the rest of your kin is, outside of Bree."

Bilbo stared at him, the words ringing in his ears. Oh, how he wanted to leave -- and he could not express how relieved he felt, to know that the Hobbits would be taken away from the battle almost immediately -- but he wanted to stay! He had to see Azog dead, or else he would forever fear Azog hunting him down and dragging him back to that hated room in chains.

"Can't I stay?" he said without thinking, stepping forward toward Thorin, and Thorin looked at him in surprise.

"Stay? Do you not wish to go home?" Thorin asked, raising his eyebrows.

The question made Bilbo falter. _I have no home,_ he wanted to say, but Thorin's expression shifted as if in realization, and a touch of regret entered his gaze.

"I mean only to say... it is dangerous, Master Baggins," Thorin said after a moment, and Bilbo could hear the apology unsaid in his tone. "War is not for Hobbits, and there will be no place for you here. You are not a fighter, despite that sword you found, and I cannot in good conscious allow you to stay and risk your life. No, I think you should go with your kin," Thorin said finally, his blue eyes solemn as he watched Bilbo.

Bilbo could not find the words to argue with him. He wanted to shout at Thorin for trying to protect him, but at the same time, he _wanted_ to be protected. More than anything, though, he wanted to know what would happen to Azog. Would he fight Thorin? Would he lose himself to his rage? Or would he defeat Thorin with the power of that anger? Bilbo could not simply walk away without knowing, without seeing with his own eyes what would happen between Azog and Thorin.

But he said none of this. Instead he bowed his head and nodded, setting his cup down and murmuring a quiet _thank you_ to the King. "I think I will go rest some more," he said quietly, and though Thorin stared at him, the King did nothing to stop him.

"Good night then, Master Baggins," the tall Dwarf said, inclining his head.

Bilbo met his gaze, wondering if Thorin could read the conflict in his heart, but he only gave a vague smile and nodded. "Good night, Your Majesty," he said, before excusing himself from the tent and starting the slow walk back to the tent of the Hobbits, missing the blue gaze that watched him go, dark with uncertainty.

He would not leave as Thorin wished. He would have to be stealthy, but he would find a spot to watch the battle, where he would be safe and out of the way. He would see Azog's last moments with his own eyes, no matter what the Dwarf King thought.


	8. The lull before the storm

Bilbo was able to crawl back into his spot amongst the Hobbits, though he barely remembered getting there and did not remember falling asleep again, so intense were his thoughts and plans for the next day. Over and over he rolled half-baked plans in his mind, until he was sure he was dreaming of them, and then he dreamed of nothing at all.

The next morning, though, he woke to giggling in his ear and opened his eyes to find several of the children ready to pounce. As soon as he saw them, they jumped, and Bilbo could not help but laugh as they tickled him. His cousin Rory (who could be such a child sometimes) joined them, until Mother Brandybuck barked at them all to _shut up, some of us are trying to sleep_ and the old Gaffer muttered that _it's too early for young'uns to be rolling about._ But by that time, everybody was awake, and the adults wore small smiles on their faces despite grumbling about the time.

As he sat up and watched everybody rise, cracking their backs and chasing after the little ones, Bilbo realized that he had not woken up with another Hobbit for many years. Azog had demanded that Bilbo sleep in his room whether he was there or not, and the first few times Bilbo had disobeyed him in the beginning, he had been beaten severely for breaking that rule and had never broken it since. He had napped more than a few times with the Hobbits, but never slept a whole night. It felt... nice, to be surrounded by them, even if he'd had to escape for a little bit, overwhelmed by their presences.

His cousin tugged at his sleeve, and Bilbo rose and followed him to a small cave where there were chamber pots. He was quiet as they completed their morning ablutions, following Rory back to the tent, where a small crowd of Dwarves had arrived and were handing out bowls of steaming porridge. The Hobbits were somewhat wary of the Dwarves, but they were glad enough for the meal, already cheerful as they ate. 

The smell of bacon caught his attention, and Bilbo's mouth watered. Real bacon. _This must be heaven._

They retrieved the bowls and spoons, and his cousin tugged him over to where the small group of Brandybucks was sitting. None of his Took cousins had been part of Azog's slaves, but Bilbo had been both glad and depressed to see his Brandybuck kin there. Uncle Gorbadoc was his aunt Mirabella's husband, and Mother Brandybuck (or Great Aunt Adaldrida, as she demanded to be called) his mother -- his very, very old mother, who Bilbo sometimes thought must be immortal. Aunt Mira and Uncle Gordy had lots of children, but only one of them had been caught with them -- Rorimac, or Rory as Bilbo usually called him. Rory had once whispered to Bilbo that his mother had taken the rest of the little ones and hidden them away, and Bilbo could only hope that they had survived Shirefall.

Mother Brandybuck gave him and Rory a glare when they sat down, but then she was clucking her tongue and nudging more bacon into their bowls, and Bilbo ducked his head with a faint smile and obediently ate the hot meal, savoring the crispy treat.

He loved these people. They were the only reason he had stayed sane with Azog as his master. In the beginning he had been unable to go near them, Azog's torments leading him to fear touch, but his kin and the children had quickly absolved him of that guilt. All of them were victims, all of them were kin or near-kin, and their love and compassion for him had kept Bilbo from spiraling down a darker path. 

His kin huddling with him in the colder months; his cousin Rorimac throwing an arm around his shoulders; the children grabbing onto his hands and climbing into his lap -- how could he fear their touches, when they loved him so much? The Hobbits had taught him a clear difference between the loving touch of a friend and the cruel touch of his master. So he had done the same for them -- taking the time to comb his Great Aunt Adaldrida's hair back with his fingers, wrestling with his cousin Rory, picking up the children and swinging them around. All of them had learned to cope with their shared trauma by holding onto each other.

When Gandalf had first touched him, he had nearly jumped out of his skin. It had taken all that he was not to move suddenly and wildly and -- perhaps claw Gandalf's eyes out, perhaps simply leap across the room. The touch of someone so much bigger than him had completely terrified him. But his memories, the knowledge that he had _known_ this person from before Shirefall, and the familiarity of Gandalf's embrace had all kept him from losing himself in reaction. That reaction had happened a bit later, when Thorin had touched him, but by that point he had been so completely filled with panic from hearing Azog that he had not cared who was touching him, only that he had to get away before Azog found him.

If he survived this, he did not know how he would handle life again. Would he be able to hug any of his Took cousins, or his Baggins aunts and uncles, or any of his distant family? Would he ever be able to cuddle with someone who wasn't younger than him, smaller than him? Would he be able to shake someone's hand? -- but then he had let Thorin pull him up. 

Bilbo just did not know. Rape was unheard of before Shirefall, as was torture. He knew he and the others would have problems, that he would be completely unlike the Hobbit he was before, that he may never recover any semblance of normality. But maybe, the other Hobbits who had already escaped -- who were waiting for them to come home -- maybe they would have figured out some way to deal with the memories and the scars. Maybe not all hope was lost.

But only after he survived could he worry about living.

Across the tent, three of the children had started a word game that led into a silly song, catching attention of many, including Bilbo. He would be sad to see everybody go, but he would be overjoyed to know that they would be safe. Undoubtedly his family would be angry with him, but he hoped they would find the rest of his relatives safe in Bree with the rest of the Hobbits. Which reminded him -- he should probably tell them about what Thorin had said -- and he should tell at least one person he would not be going with them, else they panic later.

But after breakfast. Twisted and victimized he may be, but he was still a Hobbit, and Hobbits will not put food aside for anything.

~

Thorin Oakenshield stood at the entrance of his tent, gazing out at the Dwarves as they prepared for war. Today he would lead them in what he hoped would be the last great battle of this war between the Dwarves and the Orcs. Today he would reclaim Khazad-dûm for every Dwarf who had ever lived on Middle Earth. Today he would finally defeat Azog in battle and take his head, to hold high for every Dwarf and Orc to see, to know that the Defiler was dead once and for all.

He had not slept. He would rest after the Hobbits were gone. He knew he would sleep better knowing that the innocent Halflings were far from their former masters' reach. The face of one Hobbit in particular flashed in his thoughts, and Thorin gave a small sigh.

Bilbo Baggins.

He had given Bilbo much thought in the hours since the little Halfling had visited him. He had brooded over the conversation with Gandalf and compared it to every mention of the "pain-bearer" he had ever heard from other Hobbits.

_"I would be dead if it wasn't for the pain-bearer."_

_"That one came from Azog's clan -- where the pain-bearer is. She said that her old uncle's lips were black in the morning. I wonder where we could've found some?"_

_"The pain-bearer... that poor, poor boy -- he was hardly past childhood!"_

Hints. All of them dark, worrisome hints to the kind of person Bilbo was. They haunted Thorin, the more he thought about it, the more he thought about the children and how he had found Bilbo, how Azog had demanded Bilbo's return, as Gandalf had later explained to him. Orcs may be bloodthirsty, but even they would not disobey their masters and leaders except in extreme circumstances. So if someone was deemed special enough that none of the Orcs were allowed to touch that person... then perhaps that person had used themselves as a shield to protect others. Like the children.

It gave him chills. He would gladly use himself as a shield for any of his subjects. But this spoke of something darker, of a boy being manipulated by a cruel master who could do anything to him. More than before he wanted Bilbo to be taken away, far from the filth who had ordered the Halflings' home torn asunder. Away from the Defiler who had hunted them through dark caves not for Thorin's head, but for the tiny Hobbit Thorin had protected.

He suspected, though, that Bilbo Baggins would be especially hard to send on his journey home. The Hobbit had acceded to his request too quickly. Bilbo's earnest expression had shuttered and turned polite in the blink of an eye, and Thorin was rather suspicious that Bilbo would hide away or trick the escorts into letting him stay. 

Thorin could not allow that -- he had pledged to Bilbo's safety personally, and he could not allow the Halfling to stay amidst their war march when he could easily be killed by a stray arrow, an Orc's blade, or even the Defiler himself. No, better that the Hobbit leave, and Thorin would avenge him, the Hobbits, and the Dwarves by killing Azog himself.

He felt torn about his decision, though. If it were him, he would have refused to leave as well, for he would allow no one to take his revenge against the murderer of his father and grandfather. But he was a trained warrior, and Bilbo Baggins was not. There was no way the Hobbit would be kept safe if he were allowed to stay, not even in the camp.

So Bilbo had to go. There was no other way.

~

Bilbo ended up telling the Hobbits some of everything after the Dwarves had left: that Thorin was going to send them back to Bree, that everyone who had survived was there, and that he would stay to see the end of Azog. Everyone was excited about the first and second, but the last, none of them argued with him. They only looked at him with large, sad eyes, and Bilbo heard "pain-bearer" whispered more than once. But they only wished him luck and told him, over and over again, to watch out for himself and to hurry and join them.

It left Bilbo very quiet, reminded that he would never escape that name, while the others discussed their trip in loud whispers. He wondered if they even believed they would see him again -- if they were, perhaps, happy to see him go, to see the worst reminder of their enslavement left behind. He stared down at his bowl, the thoughts growing louder in his head, imagining the Hobbits happy as they were -- but without him, and glad for it. Then Uncle Gordy knocked the back of his head, startling Bilbo out of his dark thoughts. He looked up to see all of his Brandybuck kin glaring at him.

"Your mother would haul you over her knee for such an expression, Bilbo Baggins," his Great Aunt Adaldrida said severely. "Mark my words, _nobody_ in this tent wants to see you go, but we _understand_ why you must. All of us want him dead, too," she finished with relish, and Bilbo could only stare at her, wide-eyed. Looking around, he saw his uncle and cousin staring at him heatedly, as if watching for any more doubts, while the Hobbits closest to them were nodding in agreement.

He ducked his head, cowed, and his face heated up a bit, while his eyes stung just a little. He should not have doubted them. He should never doubt the people who love him.

After breakfast came the Healers, who checked Bilbo's head and muttered, but they said that he would heal just fine if he did not run into any more walls. Bilbo was tempted to respond rather sarcastically, but a look from his great aunt held his tongue for the moment. Instead he focused on finding the Elvish sword he had brought with him, and after a few minutes of searching, he spotted it lying on the ground near the back of the tent. He did not grab it quite yet.

He snuck outside while no one was looking and asked one of the wandering Dwarves if he could borrow something for a belt. Wide eyes and a sad voice easily won him a length of leather that he could wrap around himself twice. _Too easy_ , he thought, watching the Dwarf walk away. _Almost as easy as stealing from an Orc._

That Gandalf fellow returned and sat down to entertain the children with a story while the Dwarves and older Hobbits rolled up all the bedding and stacked them up for all of the Hobbits to take with them. It was explained that the other Dwarves would be carrying most of the supplies along the way to the Gate, but the packs would be given to the Hobbits later to carry the rest of their journey back to Bree.

The Hobbits were excited. Rory was chattering happily in his ear, and Bilbo allowed it with a faint smile, hiding the turmoil he felt inside. He wanted to go with them, but he had already made his choice. A few times the Wizard eyed him as if he wanted to talk, but Bilbo stayed firmly surrounded by as many Hobbits as he could, so that he could avoid the tall fellow for a while longer.

Everybody was shooed outside after a while, and Bilbo walked out to see Thorin and many other solemn Dwarves standing in a half circle nearby, watching the Hobbits silently as they walked out. Gandalf stood at the side, watching the two races as they surveyed each other fully, malnourished but emboldened Hobbits meeting the gazes of hardened Dwarven warriors. Somehow Bilbo came to stand at the front of the group of Hobbits, and his gaze found Thorin's blue eyes easily.

Thorin returned the stare, and for a long moment there was only silence. Then the Dwarf King began to speak, looking around the group of Hobbits as he did.

"It has been seven years since the Orcs attacked your home and brought you to these mountains. I am glad to say that such dark days are over, and you no longer shall answer to the likes of Orcs. You shall be free of these caves in less than two days, when you reach the West-gate of Khazad-dûm. From there you will walk across Eriador to where your Thain and kin wait for you, outside of what remains of Bree.

"My Dwarves will guard you the entire way there, and they will stay to assist the Hobbits in whatever way they can. I know not what your Thain will decide for your people, but you are welcome at any Dwarf kingdom or colony, including my homeland of Erebor, where some of your kin have already settled. I cannot express how much the Dwarves regret not marching on the Misty Mountains sooner. I cannot apologize enough for not defeating the Orcs before they did this to you."

Thorin was quiet for a brief moment, before he gave a regal nod, meeting Bilbo's gaze again. "You are free now, and you will be safe. The Hobbits no longer have to fear the Orcs, for we will defeat them!

"The nightmare is passed! We will fight them and avenge you! You have suffered too much at the hands of Orcs, who never should have touched your homeland. Go now and find peace! Go now and build a new home, a better life for you and your people. You shall forever have an ally in the Dwarf clans of Middle Earth!"

For a moment Bilbo could not breathe, his heart caught up with Thorin's impassioned speech. The sincerity in those blue eyes struck him, and he almost forgot about staying behind, carried by the power in those words, of the dream of freedom come true. Around him, Bilbo could hear the bated breaths of Hobbits who had for too long suffered in the darkness. The cheeks of his kin were wet, and a few of them were sobbing quietly, but every Hobbit had a smile on their face and hope burning in their eyes.

Bilbo gazed into those blue eyes for another moment, then bowed his head low, thanking Thorin in the only way he could without speaking and letting his tears out. Several of the Hobbits followed his lead, and when Bilbo looked up, he was startled to see many of the Dwarves bowing their heads in return, while Thorin gazed at him with such a look on his face that Bilbo felt his heart skip a beat.

A powerful ally indeed. He and the other Hobbits would forever be grateful to these Dwarves, and Bilbo looked forward to returning to the rest of the Hobbits in Bree.

But first, he had to see the death of the Orc who had caused the deaths of countless Hobbits and the fall of their beloved Shire.

Almost as if he read Bilbo's thoughts, Thorin gave him a considering look, but Bilbo did his best to look as guileless as possible, and finally Thorin nodded to him and turned away, leaving with the tall bald Dwarf and shorter bearded Dwarf he had met with earlier. Bilbo sighed in relief, hoping that he had been successful in deceiving the Dwarf King, but only time would tell.

~

Despite his best attempts at avoidance, Gandalf caught Bilbo a short while after Thorin walked away. The Wizard did not touch him, thankfully, but he asked if he could speak to Bilbo for just a few moments before they set off, and cautiously, Bilbo agreed. So they walked over to a little area not far from the tent, and Gandalf sat down on a rock to look at Bilbo. His expression was kind, despite Bilbo's obvious hesitance, and Bilbo could tell that he was earnest. But he was still wary, and Gandalf seemed to sense this, as he gave Bilbo his space.

"I wish to offer my services," the Wizard began, catching Bilbo's attention from his cautious thoughts. "I must stay for now with the Dwarves, to see them through this war, but afterwards, I hope to return to the Hobbits and assist them in any way I can."

Bilbo stared at him for a long moment, some of his caution slipping away. "That is very kind of you," he said quietly, crossing his arms in front of him. "I'm sure the Hobbits will be very happy for your help."

Gandalf gazed at him with dark eyes, that showed such sadness for a moment that Bilbo's breath caught in his throat. "You, especially, Bilbo... your mother was very dear to me, and I will not have her only child found wanting. Not after this," he murmured, shaking his head and stroking his large beard. 

The mention of his mother left Bilbo with an ache in his chest and a hot feeling in his throat, but he managed to swallow the knot away, lowering his gaze to the ground. "You really shouldn't..."

But Gandalf shook his head and stood, gripping his staff tightly. "But I must. If you have need of anything, anything at all, Bilbo, just call for me, and I will come." He reached out to pat Bilbo's shoulder, and Bilbo flinched underneath the touch, which made the Wizard's eyes widen, and he drew his hand back.

"I am so sorry, my boy," Gandalf whispered, and Bilbo looked away, swallowing against the heat in his throat.

"Thank you... Gandalf," he said finally, and Gandalf bowed his head to him and left. Bilbo stared at the ground until the footsteps had faded, idly thinking that his shoulder felt very cold. He knew that his mother's old friend meant well, and he was thankful for it... but right now, he could not handle Gandalf's kindness. He had bigger things to worry about.

~

Somehow, it was far too easy to sneak away from the departing group of Hobbits and Dwarves.

After Thorin's speech, there was a flurry of activity where the Dwarves and Hobbits readied themselves for leaving. Thorin and most of the other Dwarves returned to their tents to prepare for their war, and the Hobbits gathered up their bedrolls and what packs the Dwarves could be convinced to give to them. At last the group stood altogether, with the Dwarf escorts in the leads, the injured Dwarves behind them, and the Hobbits following, with a small group of Dwarves to follow in the rear.

Bilbo stayed with them as he was expected to, carrying a bedroll on his back and taking a position beside his Uncle Gordy, who gave him a look but said nothing. They started their trek through a cave that was not far from their tent. As the company of Hobbits and Dwarves walked, Bilbo was easily able to find a small nook that he could hide in while the others passed, the Hobbits covering his movements with their bodies. 

He waited until the footsteps had long faded, glancing around the corner and watching the lights fade in the distance of the cave. He breathed a deep sigh, his heart beating in his chest as he felt the finality of his decision rest on his shoulders. Then he slipped out of the little nook and crept back to the camp, keeping to the shadows and watching out for the Dwarf guards.

He had little to worry about, though. Most of them were focused on the battle preparations, and they paid no mind to a small shadow that may have moved out of the corner of their eye. Bilbo snuck back to the tent where the Hobbits had slept and slipped inside, walking quickly to where he had left his sword. He wondered how to wear it, not really wanting it hanging on his waist where it would be easily seen. It was much harder to hide when you had a sword that glowed in the presence of Orcs, after all.

Finally Bilbo decided on wearing the sword on his back, underneath his sweater. It was a bit awkward, but tying the leather strap over his shoulder and around his torso did well enough, and Bilbo quickly crept back out of the cave and went to hide in a darkened corner of the camp, far from the eyes of watchful Dwarves.

There he settled in to wait. As soon as the Dwarves marched, he would follow. Anxiety burned in his chest, but Bilbo promised himself he would be cautious and stealthy. He fell into a fitful rest, and he dreamed of Azog's burning gaze, his deep voice whispering in his ear, _"Will you bear my pain as well, my pretty little hobbit?"_ as he lay dying. He woke to a resounding Dwarven cry and tears on his cheeks.


	9. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Meanings**  
>  _Baruk Khazâd!_ \-- Axes of the Dwarves!  
>  _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ \-- The Dwarves are upon you!  
>  _Du bekâr!_ \-- To arms!  
>  _Toragid biriz._ \-- Bring him to me.

The final battle of the War of Dwarves and Orcs began on September 23, 2930, just when the sun had reached its peak in the sky, though deep in the mines of Moria, no sunlight ever touched the battle. It was estimated at a later time that the Dwarves numbered over 26,000 strong, with a legion of warriors that gave no quarter and spared no mercy for the Orcs that had infested Khazad-dûm. The Orcs, whose numbers barely topped 12,000, hardly stood a chance, despite being led by Azog the Defiler, a longstanding and powerful commander of the Orc race. Against them fought the proud warriors of every one of the seven Houses of Aulë's children. Durin's folk counted as the majority with nearly half of the army, Thorin II Oakenshield of Erebor leading the Dwarves to what would be the greatest victory of the many clans of Dwarves in nearly a thousand years.

Yet the War, which had lasted six long years in the Misty Mountains, would not be without its casualties. Countless Orcs had fallen to the axes and blades of Dwarves furious in their war-lust. Of the Dwarves, at least two thousand had died in the battles before the last, and on that last day, nearly three thousand more died, succumbing to the Orcs' weapons and poisons.

Thorin's army had the advantage in numbers and strength as well as surprise. Azog's clan and his allies had the advantage of intricate knowledge of the tunnels about them. They also had an ancient creature known as the Balrog, but incidentally, the Balrog was a small chapter compared to the last day of the War, which shone in the ballads of Dwarves and haunted the genetic memory of Orcs for an age and a half.

The War ended in the early hours of September 24, two days after the Hobbit slaves of Azog had been freed from his cruel ownership. Of the thousands who took part in the battle, there were two others of import: a Wizard whose power and abilities would be forever changed by what he encountered deep in the mines of Moria, and a small Hobbit whose actions would name him Dwarf-friend and make him into a well-respected leader and savior of the race of Hobbits.

Azog the Defiler never could have predicted the events that befell him or his clan on that day.

~

Scarcely daring to breathe, Bilbo peered out from his hidden alcove and watched the Dwarves march off to war. They all took different corridors, leaving in well-formed groups that despite their weapons, chainmail, and helmets, were mostly silent after their war cry. He wondered if this was their tactic -- to attack in small waves from many different directions. Surely the Orcs would find them first? Where would they even fight -- deep in the caves, or up in the large crumbling halls of Moria? But what did he know of war?

Bilbo watched as Thorin left with one of the first groups, and he wondered how the Dwarf King would fare in battle. He decided to find Thorin as quickly as possible, as undoubtedly the Dwarf King would seek out his enemy to fight, and Bilbo wanted to be there to witness it. Briefly, he hoped that Thorin would survive this battle. He feared for the Dwarves' lives, and he had once believed fervently that no army could defeat the Orcs, but if it was this group of people -- if it was Thorin and his army of Dwarves -- then Bilbo believed that they could reach victory.

One of the last groups was a rather small battalion of heavily armed Dwarves. It was this group that Bilbo chose to follow, sneaking out from his hiding place and trailing far enough behind the Dwarves that if they turned around, he was able to duck out of sight behind a crag or rock. The Dwarves never noticed him, their hard gazes focused ever forward.

The march was long and silent most of the time. The Dwarves did not take breaks or stop walking, and as the minutes crept by and they drew closer to Bilbo's unwanted home of seven years, he became aware of the shrieks of Orcs and the banging of the war drums in the background. Already the battle was underway. Bilbo could hear the Orcs cursing the Dwarves as they died, and it sent a terrible tremble through him. Though he had seen many dark, evil things these past seven years, it never ceased to bother him when he witnessed death.

He stayed far out of the way, though, as Orcs poured from caves and corridors, and the Dwarves began to fight them. He was in familiar territory -- he knew how to reach the main halls using forgotten stairwells and tunnels. He had crept about these caves for seven years without anyone ever finding him, and so as soon as Bilbo recognized where he was, he ran off into the darkness, finding his way without even needing a light.

 _Wait for me_ , he thought of Thorin and Azog, desperate even as determination burned in his veins. _Wait so that I can see his fall._

But whose fall, he did not really know.

~

For a time all Thorin knew was the thrust of his blade, the fall of his axe, and the thunks against his shield of oak.

He slayed Orc after Orc, never pausing, only knowing the heat of battle and the spray of black blood on his armor. _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu! Du bekâr!_ Each shout roused his blood and the war-lust of his fellow Dwarves. The Orcs fell by the dozens as Thorin fought, protecting his brethren and caring not for the corpses he leapt over. He only had one thing on his mind.

_Azog._

He knew where the Defiler was: in the main halls of Moria, directing his Orcs to battle and cutting down the Dwarves that ran at him. But Thorin's cousin Dáin had sent word that the Dwarves had Azog and his clan on the defensive, while his allies of other Orc and goblin clans were steady gutted of power in the surrounding caves. Thorin could feel their victory in his bones, but they were still a long way from the end of this battle. After all, Azog was still alive.

And still the Orcs had not fallen. So Thorin pressed forward, cutting down the foul creatures so that he could reach their leader. Gandalf had left their company a while ago, and Thorin could only hope he was seeking the Balrog in caves deep below.

He was running past a small cave when a shadow out of the corner of his eye caught him off guard. He did not stumble, but he hesitated briefly and watched the cave. Whatever he had seen was gone, though. Barely a moment had passed, and then Thorin was running again, letting out a curse as he spun and drove his axe into an Orc's throat.

He had caught a shadow of a shade, but it had been gone so quickly that Thorin wondered if it was a ghost of a Hobbit long dead. A suspicion curled in the back of his mind, but he ignored it, not wanting to believe it to be true. It had just been a trick of his eye. If that particular Hobbit was actually here... well, Thorin did not know what he would do. So he let himself believe, at least for a time, that the flash of pale skin and dark blonde curls was only his imagination.

~

That had been close. Too close. Thorin had nearly seen him.

Bilbo had reached the end of a tunnel that led to a large cave and had to stop short, else he would have ended up right in the middle of a vicious fight between the Orcs and Dwarves. He had ducked back into the darkness before being seen, thankfully, but his attention had been caught before he could run away.

Thorin was fighting amongst the Orcs. And what a magnificent fighter he was: blue eyes blazing as he alternated effortlessly between sword and axe, destroying Orcs without pause, a strange log-like shield on his arm protecting him from the clubs and blades of Orc-make -- and with a start, Bilbo had realized that that was _the_ shield of oak wood that had made Thorin infamous. He had heard a bit of the story, from Azog's rants and listening in on the Orcs, but he had not realized that it was truly a branch and little more. Yet it bore the marks of blades that had once sought to injure Thorin, and Bilbo wondered how it had not broken all these years. Had that not been more than a century ago?

He had realized that Thorin was running toward his cave, so he had darted off down the stone corridor, his heart beating madly in his chest. If Thorin caught him, he did not know what would happen -- but he would rather avoid it. Looking back, he saw Thorin run past and glance his way, and the way Thorin's eyes widened had Bilbo's heart rate tripling in his chest. He hastened to the corner and vanished around it, heading back the way he came.

Oh, he hoped that Thorin had not actually seen him. The tall Dwarf seemed like the type to lecture people, and Bilbo had lived with Great Aunt Adaldrida -- and before that, his father -- for long enough that he was sick of lectures, especially ones that dealt with life or death situations. He doubted, though, that Thorin would use phrases such as "too Tookish" and "nothing like a proper Baggins" if he gave a lecture on behavior.

His face grew hot for a moment, for some reason, but Bilbo shook off the feeling and kept running. How odd, to think of his father of all people at this moment -- and odder still to miss him so fiercely. If he survived this day and returned to his family, as he dared to hope -- then he would try to find out what had happened to Bag-End. He owed his father that much, despite never agreeing with him and always feeling resentful of his lectures.

But he still missed his father, just like he missed his mother. He wondered what they would think of him now, dashing through dark tunnels, chasing the death of the creature that caused their terrible deaths. Would they hate him for what he had done to the Hobbits? Would his mother drag him over her knee like an unruly fauntling? Would his father scold him for risking his life?

But it was useless to imagine them, and yet Bilbo could not stop thinking of them for several moments, as he climbed narrow stairwells and skittered across narrow ledges. He was getting very close to the main halls, and the screams of dying Orcs and Dwarves echoing in the tunnels had him on edge. He was terrified of being discovered by an Orc or running into another skirmish.

Time passed quickly, and in what seemed like only moments, Bilbo came to stand in the shadow of a ledge that looked over the huge hall where Azog's clan had spent most of their time. The hall was filled with Orcs and Dwarves, along with trolls and goblins, and Bilbo could see fighting in every corner of the halls from his vantage point. Bilbo realized that the fire he had set in Azog's rooms had left a thick haze in the air. There was no obvious fire now, but the halls stunk of smoke and death.

His knees suddenly buckled, and he slowly knelt down, pressing his shoulder to the cold stone and staring over the great hall. There was blood everywhere -- red and black, sticking to the walls and sprayed across the corpses and abandoned weapons that lay on the floor. He would never get used to this sight. So much death -- was it worth it? Were the Dwarves even winning? He could not tell -- he could barely see all of the people fighting, with the gray wisps curling in the air. 

And then, unerringly, his gaze found a massive pale figure standing amidst the sharp movements of war, despite the haze of smoke and the clamor of the battle below. A violent shiver pierced his body in recognition, and Bilbo's eyes widened. He suddenly wished that he was anywhere but here, that he was invisible, that he had run back to Bree with the rest of the Hobbits.

Because Azog was staring straight at him.

Pale, scarred lips curled, then parted in speech, and Bilbo could read the words without even hearing the noise from far across the hall.

" _Nûl-lûpûrz-izub._ "

There was a high-pitched noise in his ear, yet Bilbo could hear nothing. Bilbo's world narrowed to only him and Azog, his eyes wide as he stared into the pale blue eyes of his master. He felt himself shaking, found himself short of breath, but he could not move, could not gasp, could do _nothing_. There was only him and Azog, and he could feel the malevolence in Azog's glare even though he was so far away. It burned his senses and left him numb with pure terror.

Then Azog's attention was turned away, for just a second. Those pale eyes shifted to the side briefly, and suddenly Bilbo could move, could breathe again.

He wasted no time in vanishing into the shadows and fleeing as fast as he could down the darkened path that lead to the side of the hall. He grasped as many surfaces as he could reach to drag him a little further, help him get away a little faster. He had to get away. Azog had seen him. Azog knew he was there. If Azog caught him, he was dead. He was worse than dead -- Azog would never, ever let him rest again. He would know only pain for the rest of his miserable life if Azog caught him. He could not let that happen. He had to escape. He had to run back to the camp and follow the Hobbits and get out of Moria and never, ever look back again.

Then he heard a familiar deep voice echo across the vast hall, and every hair on his body stood on end.

" _BRING ME THE PAIN-BEARER,_ " he heard, and though he ran faster, it was only a matter of time -- moments, so rushed was he to escape -- that clawed hands caught his clothes and dragged him down into the hazy darkness of battle.

~

Finally, Thorin had reached the massive halls where the worst of the fighting was taking place -- where his kin fought and his enemy stood over them all, his pale face fixed in a cruel leer. Thorin growled under his breath and pushed forward, dashing past his allies and cutting through his enemies as he worked his way toward Azog. All that lay between them was space and warm bodies, and there was no way that Thorin would not reach him.

He could see Azog staring off into the distance, but then as Thorin cut down another Orc and let out a battle cry, he saw Azog's gaze flicker toward him. He gave a vicious glare, and Azog sneered at him before looking away again. Then he saw something strange; Azog's expression flickered and his sneer faded abruptly. Then the Defiler stood tall, pointed aloft, and bellowed something in the foul speech of his race. Around them, dozens of Orcs let out cries in return.

He ignored the strange actions -- and yet they left him wary and on edge -- pushing forward and continuing his fight, when suddenly Thorin heard something that made his stomach drop like stone.

A single high-pitched shriek, too high to be a Dwarf and completely different from the cry of a goblin or Orc. The scream of a Hobbit. But no Hobbit should be anywhere near this battle!

Thorin cursed even as he recalled the shadow he had seen earlier. So it had not been his imagination. There -- across the hall, he saw two Orcs dragging a twisting and struggling figure, so small between them. Dark blonde hair and a flash of blue, the sweater Bilbo had been wearing earlier -- and now he could see Bilbo's expression of terror.

Bilbo had been caught by the Orcs, and he was being taken to Azog.

 _Damn that Hobbit, and damn the scouts for not keeping a closer eye on him!_ he thought anxiously. Despite watching for himself to see that Bilbo had left, as well as telling the Hobbits' escorts to keep a sharp eye on him, there was no mistaking those curls. The Hobbit had stayed behind as Thorin had suspected he would, but he appeared to have avoided the worst of the battle -- until now.

Despite his efforts to keep the Hobbit away, somehow Thorin was not surprised by his presence. It was Bilbo's choice to be here, but Thorin was still angry at him for not leaving. Yet in a way, Thorin understood that Bilbo could not leave -- he had seen it in Bilbo's expression, when he had asked, begged to stay -- not without knowing for sure that his former master was dead.

Thorin was still furious, though. Bilbo's safety and continued existence was his responsibility, and he had done very poorly to protect him further than setting a Dwarf to tail him and to make sure he was not separated from his sword. Now he was caught by Orcs, and Thorin had to get to him fast, before Azog hurt him or worse.

So he ran. " _Azog the Defiler!_ " he roared, shoving aside an Orc and jumping up on a ledge, pointing his axe that dripped of black blood at Azog, who turned to look at him.

"Come and face me in battle!" he shouted, uttering the challenge with fury in his voice and a livid expression, and across the hall Azog's gaze sharpened. Then he threw his head back and laughed, and then he pointed at Thorin with that massive clawed hand.

" _Toragid biriz,_ " the Defiler said, and though Thorin could not understand it, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand when several of the Orcs turned to look at him and hissed. Then he was lost in the heat of battle again, as the Orcs surged toward him and he met them axe to club.

Across the hall, Azog turned away to look upon the approaching Orcs, and Thorin could only watch as the Orcs brought the small Hobbit he sought to protect before Azog. He saw Bilbo being forced to his knees, before the onslaught of his enemies drove him back, and he could only see goblins and Orcs around him. He fought savagely, but in the back of his mind he desperately wondered, _Can I reach him in time?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be astonished by your responses to my story. I'm glad you like it! Thank you for your support!!! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and don't forget to check out the awesome fanart!


	10. Reunited

" _You thought you could escape me._ "

no no no no

" _You trusted in that worthless Dwarf, yet he cannot reach you._ "

oh no, please no, please say it wasn't true

" _Know your place, pain-bearer. It is beside me. Not in a hole, not in the light of the sun, not with any son of Durin. With me, and only me._ "

can't this be a dream can he wake up now please let him wake up

" _Pain-bearer! Look at me._ "

Bilbo raised his head and looked up, following the order without even thinking about it. Azog was glaring down at him, his eyes glittering, and Bilbo tried to breathe in past the stench of death and Orcs. He thought he had been used to the smell of this place, but a taste of freedom had cleared his senses, given him fresh air --

" _And what has it brought you?_ " Azog murmured, reaching out to grip Bilbo's curls tightly. " _You know what happens to disobedient slaves. What else has your little adventure brought you, but pain?_ "

Bilbo glared at him, and then he spat in Azog's face, something he had only dared to do a few times in the last seven years, as it roused Azog's temper something fierce. _Kill me,_ he thought desperately. _I can make you angry enough to do it!_

But Azog, who had stilled as soon as the saliva hit his cheek, merely reached up to wipe off the offending substance. Then he grabbed Bilbo's shoulder and squeezed tightly, and Bilbo let out a sharp cry. The other Orcs let him go, and Azog began stalking away, dragging Bilbo along with him.

"NO!" Bilbo yelled, grabbing onto Azog's arm and digging his nails in, but broken fingernails were no match to an Orc's thick skin. He pushed his feet against the floor but they slid in the dark mess that covered the stone ground, and though he struggled and fought, there was no stopping Azog as he pulled Bilbo out of the massive hall, to where the Dwarves had not yet breached. There were few Orcs here, nearly all of them fighting in the main hall and holding back the Dwarves, but two of the Wargs were prowling around, including Azog's Warg.

With a start Bilbo realized that they were moving closer to their bedroom, and his voice grew frantic. "No! Don't take me there again! I won't go back! I burned it anyway, there's nothing left --"

" _Silence,_ " Azog growled, and Bilbo shut his mouth immediately, nothing more than a whimper escaping him. " _So it was you. I thought it had been that damn son of Durin,_ " he said, and Bilbo could not stop him as he strode down the hall to their door. Yet when they reached it, Azog did not enter, his hand pausing in front of the ancient runes that glittered across the stone. Then Bilbo realized why -- the door was closed, and Orcs could not open closed Dwarf doors.

Usually, all of the doors were left open by rope or bricks, and even Azog had kept his door just slightly open when he wanted privacy. It was not that Azog did not know the password to open the door, for he knew a bit of Khuzdul and the password was easy enough, but that he was unwilling to speak the language of the Dwarves. Bilbo had learned this a few years ago, not long after his Dwarf friend had died.

Bilbo could see the heat rising off the door, and he realized that the fire was still burning inside. Azog must have closed it to keep the flame from spreading. He felt relieved, but only for a moment, as in the next, the pain he had expected since he was caught blossomed in his chest.

He realized a second later that Azog had pushed him up against the door, and Bilbo felt white-hot pain as the burning stone touched his chest. He screamed and struggled, and Azog relented after a moment, tugging Bilbo back and walking over to an alcove, out of sight of the rest of the Orcs. He set Bilbo down at his side, and Bilbo fell to his knees and wheezed, a few tears escaping the corners of his eyes.

" _Tell me why you did it,_ " Azog said, and Bilbo shot a watery glare at him but said nothing. Azog growled softly and reached down, gripping Bilbo's curls and tugging, forcing him to stand again. " _I know you can understand me! Tell me why!_ "

Fed up and frustrated and in pain worse than he had felt in a long time, Bilbo hit Azog's wrist, but Azog did not let him go. "Because I _hate_ you!" he snarled, his eyes wide and bright as he glared up at his master. "Because I hate that room, and I hate this place, and I wanted to see it all _burn_!"

Azog let out a soft growl, but Bilbo curled his lips in a sneer, unwilling to back down. Azog let out a short grunt and dropped him, kneeling down and laying his hand on Bilbo's neck. Bilbo stilled but did not stop glaring, twitching as Azog's thumb stroked his pointed ear. " _I know that. That is not what I meant, you fool,_ " Azog said, and Bilbo's glare faltered.

"W-what?"

Azog growled again, pressing his claw against Bilbo's ear, and Bilbo yelped when he felt the skin slice open. " _Why the Dwarf? Enemy of my clan, enemy of the Defiler -- why him? You could have killed me long before now, but you waited, and now that worthless son of Durin murders my clan in my own halls. Why did you join **him**?_ " he asked, shaking Bilbo, and Bilbo realized that he recognized the odd tone in Azog's voice.

Possessiveness. Bilbo knew this, having heard it from Azog many times before, in how he said _nûl-lûpûrz_ each night. He stared up at Azog, not answering for a moment, and Azog shook him again.

" _Why?!_ "

Slowly Bilbo smiled, baring his teeth and feeling triumphant when Azog's eyes flashed. "Because he is your enemy," he said, and he let out a laugh as Azog's lips curled in a snarl. "Because I couldn't save my people, and he could. He took them far away, and all of your Hobbit slaves are gone. All except me, and I won't let you have me much longer," he sneered.

Azog stared down at him, and Bilbo felt the pressure on the side of his head lessen. His twisted smile abruptly faded when Azog's expression changed, a grin appearing on those scarred lips. " _That is why you are my pain-bearer,_ " Azog murmured, and something cold and heavy touched Bilbo's heart. Dread, icy and terrible, erasing the triumph he had felt but moments earlier.

" _I will not let you die, my pretty little hobbit. You are **mine**. Nothing can take you away from me,_ " Azog said, and he pushed Bilbo back against the wall behind him. Bilbo was frozen, but he barely heard a soft 'clunk' as his little sword hit the wall. Azog did not seem to notice it, though, as he continued, " _Did you know? My allies think me weak for keeping you. But they do not see what I see._ "

His heart thudding in his chest, Bilbo itched to pull out his sword, but there was no way he could reach it. He stared up at Azog, his eyes wide, unable to say anything in response to the -- emotion? in Azog's voice. More than fury, stronger than hate -- the way Azog murmured the words made Bilbo tremble.

Azog slid his hand behind Bilbo's head to the back of his neck, fingers twisting in his curls, and he pulled Bilbo closer to whisper in his ear. " _They do not know the true joy of you, my pain-bearer. You fight me every day, all for your kin, never for yourself. They cannot know the beauty of your agony, of your sacrifice. And they never will,_ " he snarled, suddenly angry, and Bilbo tensed.

" _You are **mine**. I will not give you to any Orc, or to that accursed Dwarf! You will watch as I take his head, and I will mount it in our room, to remind you every day of your failure. Now come,_ " Azog said darkly, grabbing Bilbo by the arm and hauling him up, standing and beginning the walk back to the main hall. " _Come and see his death, and the death of every Dwarf he has condemned by bringing them before the Defiler._ "

Bilbo was too distracted to fight him, and he stumbled along silently, numb with horror. He was imagining that room, but with Thorin's head on a pike above the door, dead blue eyes staring at him. Those blue, blue eyes, empty of fire and life -- and then Bilbo knew he could not let it happen.

His wide gaze flitted up to Azog's face. His master, so possessive of him, and jealous to a fault. So many times Bilbo had been hidden away when Azog's allies from other clans came to visit. Sometimes, the morning after a particularly vicious night, Azog would leave him in the Hobbits' hall and order him not to leave, and no Orcs would be allowed to see the Hobbits that day. The constant touches, the murmurs of his name, even how he would sometimes be the first to see the heads of whatever enemies Azog had slaughtered that day... All of these small things swirled together in Bilbo's mind, along with countless other bits of memories of his master -- facts of Bilbo's life that he had never questioned until now.

The sword on his back felt cold even through the shirt he wore. His chest hurt fiercely, beyond the pain of being burned, and Bilbo could not focus on why. He realized that there were tears in his eyes, and he hated himself then.

He knew why Azog was so possessive of him. He knew why it hurt so much to think about Azog's conviction in taking Thorin's head. Slowly, he reached up to grip Azog's wrist, and the touch made the tall Orc look down at him. Something in Bilbo's expression must have eased his rage a bit, because Azog let him go and continued walking, confident that Bilbo would follow.

Bilbo did follow, all the while feeling the weight of the sword on his back, knowing that he was walking toward an execution.

~

The moments that he could not see the Hobbit stretched like years, but Thorin still pushed forward, until at last he could reach the place where Azog had stood. Azog and Bilbo were gone, though, and in frustration he drove his sword into the next Orc he saw. " _Forward!_ " he shouted in Khuzdul, and the Dwarves around him gave an answering bellow. " _Axes of the Dwarves! Defeat the Orcs!_ "

So onward they fought, and the battle was so intense that Thorin did not notice for several minutes that the Orcs coming at him did not attempt deadly blows, instead seeking only to injure him. His guard was strong, though, and he defended himself well from the Orcs' weapons, slaying the foul creatures that dared to approach him. 

And then, ahead -- deep in the hall past where the Orcs held them off -- he could see Azog walking toward him. As the Defiler strode forward, the Orcs parted for him, and behind him walked the tiny figure of Bilbo, head bowed as he followed Azog.

Master and slave, reunited.

The fury took Thorin by surprise. To see Azog standing there with such an expression, as if he had already won, with the poor Hobbit looking so defeated... but then, Bilbo looked up and caught his gaze. Those dark eyes showed no defeat -- no, they glittered with determination and a fire that had Thorin gripping his axe with the desire to surge forward and drive it into Azog's skull.

" _So Thorin son of Thrain invades my halls,_ " Azog said, coming to stand before Thorin, and the Dwarf King could see Bilbo several paces behind him, blocked by the Warg that prowled behind the Defiler. " _Will you plead as your father did? Will you beg me to spare your life?_ "

"Azog," Thorin breathed, not understanding the words but feeling a shiver run up his spine in response. He hated how Azog said his name, and somehow he knew -- he _knew_ that Azog was taunting him about his father. "This is the last day you haunt the halls of my forefathers. _For the glory of the Dwarves!_ " he shouted in Khuzdul, hearing his brethren shout in response.

Azog sneered at him, and the great Orc picked up a heavy mace that one of the Orcs nearby handed to him. " _Your head will fit perfectly on my wall_ ," he said, and behind him, Bilbo twitched. Thorin glanced briefly at Bilbo and felt his temper rise, remembering all of the terrified Hobbits they saved, the skeletons and corpses they found, the dead looks on the Hobbits' faces.

"You will pay for what you have done," Thorin snarled, and Azog hefted his mace and began stalking toward him. "For my father! For my grandfather! For the Dwarves!" he roared, lifting his axe. "And for the Hobbits you defiled!" he finished with a growl, and he began to run toward Azog, striking at the Defiler with all of the strength in his arms.

His axe caught Azog across the stomach, and the great Orc gave a roar and knocked Thorin back with his mace. Thorin grunted as he hit the ground, but fury and hatred had him rising again. His shield of oak -- the piece of wood that had saved his life so long ago -- blocked Azog's mace from destroying his chest, but the blows still threw him back several feet.

Every time he fought Azog, it was always a test of endurance between them. Dwarves had strength superior to all other races, but Azog had strength above all beings that Thorin had witnessed. They had fought face-to-face four times before: once, the very first time, when Thorin had come seeking revenge for his father, and he had saved himself with a stray branch of oak. 

The second time had been years later, when Thorin had been on an expedition to meet the Dwarf leaders from other clans, and Azog had attacked them. Thorin had gained respect and notoriety for his battle against Azog that day, but still the Defiler had slunk away to live, both of them nursing wounds and fury for each other. The third time had been on a hunting trip in Mirkwood, except Thorin had killed three of Azog's generals, and Azog's rage had given Thorin a great scar across his chest.

The last had been just two years ago. Azog had come to an ally's aid further north, and in the middle of the battle, Thorin had met him axe to mace, just as he did today. It was on that day that Thorin scored a victory against Azog: he had taken Azog's hand, slicing it off his arm and causing the Defiler to fall. The Orcs had taken Azog away, and Thorin had heard later that Azog had lived, which had made him furious. Now, the Defiler had an awkward metal hook to replace his hand, and the sight of it made Thorin ill.

So now they fought, Dwarf axe to Orc mace, and despite his rage, despite the desperate drive to avenge his kin and the victims of Azog's cruelty, Thorin could feel himself losing. Azog was more than angry -- he was _furious_ , and though that pale blue gaze was bright and it seemed that he smiled, Thorin could tell that Azog was angrier than he had ever been before in any of their fights. He could see it in the fast, somewhat unsteady movements, feel it in the blows that Azog tried to land on him -- Azog was livid.

Past Azog, Thorin caught glimpses of Bilbo staring at them in horror, while the Orcs that were not fighting jeered and shrieked around them. Some of his Dwarves had stopped to watch, too, and Thorin wanted to tell them to fight, to continue, to push ever forward -- but he was too fixed on fighting Azog.

Then one of Azog's blows hit him in the face, and pain exploded in his senses. He felt himself hit the floor, but the pain in his face had him dizzy, and he could barely focus for a moment. He gasped and opened his eyes, to see Azog standing over him, blue eyes fire-bright as he gazed down at Thorin. Leaning down, Azog took his axe and flexed his fingers around it.

" _You will pay for taking my pain-bearer_ ," Azog murmured, setting the axe to Thorin's neck. Thorin stared at him in horror and reached blindly for the Elvish sword, but he could not feel it -- it had fallen away, landed too far away for him to reach.

 _No_ , he thought desperately. He could not die here -- he could not lose this battle, not when so much depended on him. His people, the Hobbits -- everything he had fought for -- he could _not lose_ \--

But Azog was raising the axe, and Thorin felt the world freeze around him, the cries of his men, of Dwalin screaming his name fading, but he could do _nothing_ \--

But then there was color and sound again, bursting into his senses, and Thorin realized that he was not dead, and that Azog stood still above him, expression twisted in surprise. Then Thorin saw it.

Jutting from Azog's chest was the tip of a blade that glowed blue beneath the black blood dripping from it. Behind him stood the tiny figure of Bilbo Baggins, his cheeks wet, shaking fingers gripping the sword tightly. Bilbo let go of the blade and stumbled back, and around them, everybody stared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a tribute to the inspiration for this story and my all-time favorite series, _Kushiel's Legacy_ by Jacqueline Carey. If you see _Kushiel's Dart,_ on a shelf somewhere, grab it and read it! A bit of trivia: "Pain-bearer" is a term used in the second book of that trilogy for the main character. It is from her that I draw much of my inspiration for Bilbo. So. GO READ IT, if you haven't already.


	11. The end of a nightmare

_Can I really do this?_

Could he? He should. He had to. But Bilbo could not help the lingering sense of doubt, despite dreaming of this day for years. Maybe Azog wasn't -- but no, _no_ , Azog had _ruined_ his life, had destroyed his family and the lives of everyone he held dear, he was a _monster_ and Bilbo did not feel anything other than hatred for him.

Yet why did his chest hurt so much?

As Azog stalked ahead to meet Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo was stopped by his Warg, who curled around his body and prowled along the edges of the circle that the Orcs and Dwarves had subconsciously made, to give the two leaders room for their battle. Bilbo stared at the back of Azog's head, half-listening to the taunts the Orcs made to the Dwarves, more focused on the feel of the sword on his back and wondering how quickly he could get the strap off. Would the other Orcs notice him before he could reach them? His gaze shifted to the Warg that stalked along the side of the small clearing made for Thorin and Azog. Would the beast attack him?

He decided he did not care if it did, so long as he reached Azog. One of them would die when he did -- perhaps he could threaten his own life, and Azog would halt, or maybe he could injure Azog enough that Thorin could finish him off. His gaze caught Thorin's, and those blue, blue eyes sent a thrill through him. He stepped forward automatically, but the Warg slunk in front of him and blocked the path for a moment. Then Azog and Thorin began to speak to each other.

Bilbo could only listen, unable to move forward. He could tell from Thorin's expressions that he did not understand Azog's sneering words, and he could not help but flinch when Azog mentioned taking Thorin's head again. And then -- and then they were fighting, fast and furious and Bilbo's heart leapt into his throat, staring in dazed silence at the spectacle before him.

Azog's rage was palpable as he landed blow after blow on Thorin, blocked by the massive axe or that curious shield of oak, and Thorin fought back viciously, so intensely that Bilbo could feel the blood pounding in his ears. The great white Warg which had alternatively guarded and terrified Bilbo for years crept along the edge, snapping at Dwarves that ventured too near and growling at the Orcs as they cheered on their chief.

Thorin was losing. Azog was pushing him back, and he struck at Azog less and less, his guard going up as he defended himself more and more. Then it happened: Azog's mace caught the Dwarf King across the face, and he was flung to the ground. Bilbo knew the second it happened that Thorin would not get up from that blow.

When he saw Azog pick up the axe, he acted without thinking. Nobody noticed him, their eyes fixed on Azog's tall figure as he stood above Thorin, so when Bilbo ripped off his sweater and threw it aside, fumbling with the strap over his chest, none of the Orcs stopped him. The seconds of grasping at the leather band pushed against his senses, but finally Bilbo had the sheath in his hand, his other hand pulling out the gleaming blade that sung with a note of finality. The blue of its intense glow nearly blinded him, but Bilbo did not care -- he had to reach Azog.

He began to run. The blade was heavy in his hand -- so many times he had picked it up, and it had felt light as a feather, perfect for his small figure. Now it felt too large, too awkward, but Bilbo clung to it, his eyes on Thorin's face as he struggled to find his sword, too far from his grasping fingers.

" _You will pay for taking my pain-bearer,_ " he heard, the deep voice of his master ringing in his ears, and he felt something in him break. Would he ever be free of that name?

Maybe now.

Before Azog could bring the axe down on Thorin's vulnerable throat, Bilbo stood up straight and drove the glowing blade into his master's back, the sword sinking with disgusting ease into that pale flesh. Abruptly the screeches of the Orcs and bellows of the Dwarves faded around them, and Bilbo felt something hot and wet on his hands. Strength suddenly gone, he let go of the sword and stumbled back, reaching up and realizing that his face was damp with tears.

Azog was still for a long moment before his arms dropped, and slowly the Defiler turned to stare down at Bilbo. For once, Azog's expression did not show glee or fury. He looked surprised. Bilbo stepped back when he saw Azog's eyes land on him and widen.

" _Nûl-lûpûrz,_ " his master murmured, black blood dribbling at the corner of his mouth, before his scarred mien twisted with fury -- pain? -- and he raised the axe, a roar shaking every nerve in Bilbo's body as Azog began to cut downward through the air. At Bilbo.

He closed his eyes in acceptance. Thorin lived, Azog would die, and the Hobbits were free. It was alright if he died. He had dreamed of this day for years, and though nothing had happened like he had wanted, he was at peace with the thought of dying.

Even so, he tensed and felt more tears on his cheeks, hoping that his cousins would be alright without him, wishing he could have seen sunlight again, wondering if his father would scold him when he reached the other side -- thought _I don't want this_ \-- when another bellow made him start and look up.

Blue, blue eyes met his briefly, and Bilbo gaped, as Thorin Oakenshield charged up behind Azog and sliced clean through the arm holding the axe with a glowing blue sword, causing the axe to fly past Bilbo's head and imbed itself in the stone behind him. Azog gave another furious, incredulous roar, but before he could turn and impale his hook into Thorin, the Dwarf King had driven his sword through Azog's chest, halting him in his steps.

The Defiler struggled briefly, but then his eyes dimmed, and Bilbo watched in stunned shock as he fell to his knees in front of Bilbo, then slumped to the side, pale blue eyes lifting to fix on Bilbo's face.

"Azog," Bilbo whispered, feeling every limb in his body shaking, but he could not move, could not pull himself away, even though there were Orcs everywhere and Thorin was watching them silently.

" _My pain-bearer,_ " Azog said softly, and then the light went out of his eyes completely, and the Defiler fell to the ground, dead.

Bilbo felt a great void within him open up. His master was dead, and he could find no words, make no sounds, could not bring himself to care that he was still in the middle of a battle and that he could die at any point. Azog was dead. He had _dreamed_ of this moment for so, so long, had wished it every night upon falling asleep and every morning upon waking. He felt the greatest relief in his life bubble up in his throat, a sob escaping him.

Yet he could not look away from Azog's body. Those pale eyes staring at him, haunting him, and Bilbo knew he would never forget this sight -- but then the vision of Azog's dead gaze was blocked off when a tall figure stepped in front of him, chainmail clinking. He looked up to see Thorin Oakenshield standing above him protectively, hefting the little sword Bilbo had used to kill Azog -- and there was no doubt in Bilbo's mind that while Thorin had delivered the final blow, it was Bilbo's actions that had left Azog dead -- and he began to speak to the hall in that deep, majestic voice.

But Bilbo understood none of it. His vision went gray for a moment, and he felt like he might be sick. Azog was dead. Azog was gone. He was free.

He was truly _free_ , and Bilbo could not stop crying because of it.

~

His enemy was dead, by his and Bilbo Baggins' hands. No more would Azog haunt the halls of Khazad-dûm, never to terrify another Hobbit or behead another Dwarf, never to defile any living being on this green earth.

As soon as Azog had turned away from him, Thorin had scrambled for his sword, heaving himself up despite his dizziness and the pain in his head, _knowing_ that he had only moments to stop Azog before he destroyed the Hobbit who had saved Thorin's life. When Azog had raised the axe once again, despite the blade stuck in his torso, Thorin had rushed forward with a war cry to cut the arm off, knowing that was the only way at that point to stop Azog -- and it had worked.

He did not give Azog the chance to rise again. Thinking of his father and grandfather who had died at Azog's hands, of the Hobbits that walked away from the Misty Mountains with empty gazes and lost expressions, he had thrust his sword into Azog and twisted, breathing in deeply as he felt the resolution in the action. He had been briefly stunned by the expression on Bilbo's face as Azog fell, and when Azog murmured something in such a way and Bilbo's expression froze, Thorin's temper rose, not wanting to see that expression on any Hobbit's face again, much less this one.

The way Bilbo said Azog's name turned his blood to ice -- but Thorin had come too far, and he had promised Bilbo he would save him. So he had done so, and if Bilbo looked so lost, so distraught that he might as well been heartbroken, then Thorin would ignore it -- but he would not forget.

Thorin breathed harshly as he stared down at Azog's body, then gave a grunt and tugged his sword free of the corpse. After a moment he reached down and pulled out Bilbo's short sword as well, whipping it through the air to shake some of the blood from it. Bilbo had an empty expression on his face as he stared at the dead body of his former master, and Thorin could not think of much past _you saved my life_ and _I have never seen such bravery_ , but now was not the time -- they were surrounded by the Orcs of Azog's clan and allies, and any second now, they would charge.

He stepped around Azog's corpse and turned, lifting the short sword of Bilbo Baggins and crying, "The Defiler is dead! Khazad-dûm returns to the Dwarves!" and half of the warriors in the hall turned to stare at him. Some of Orcs gave a fierce cry and sprang forward, but the Dwarves who had been near Thorin rushed to meet them, Dwalin at the lead as he fought to protect Thorin. The rest of the Orcs seemed to panic and scatter, undone by the fall of their chief, as Thorin knew they would be. Orcs could never stay together without someone to control them.

Thorin stayed where he was, knowing that the Hobbit behind him had no defense -- and rightfully so, as he heard a deep growl only moments later, and looked back to see the great white Warg which had followed Azog everywhere preparing to jump at Bilbo. Thorin leapt over Azog's dead body and drew up his sword, Bilbo's short sword in one hand while he held his own Elvish blade in the other. The Warg ran at him, snarling and snapping, but Thorin was quick to whirl around and slice at the beast's belly, causing it to let out a great cry of distress.

It turned and leapt at him again, and just like its master, Thorin cut off one of its legs, leaving it to stumble in pain, out of balance. Then it snapped at him, and Thorin had to throw aside the short sword to grab Bilbo and tug him out of the way, as it leapt again. The Warg did not turn to attack again, though, instead limping over to Azog and laying its head down, a howl ringing out across the hall. Disturbed, Thorin took the only action he could think of, which was to stalk up behind the Warg and drive his sword into its neck. Its movement stopped, and Thorin pulled out his sword and backed away to Bilbo again.

He looked past the dead body of his enemy to the rest of the great hall, and to his surprise, he saw that the Orcs were now fleeing, leaving their dead behind while the Dwarves who were not injured or tired chased after them. It was done, then. The battle was over, the war was won -- the Misty Mountains were theirs again.

They had won. The Orcs were on the run, and Khazad-dûm belonged again rightfully to the Dwarves. His march had been a success, and finally -- _finally_ , his enemy was dead, and the Hobbits were avenged. Joy and relief filled him, followed by the dark dread of wondering who was dead, who had not survived the war. 

Breathing in deeply, he lowered his weapon and glanced back at Bilbo, seeing the Hobbit kneeling where Thorin had pushed him, his blank blue-gray gaze fixed on Azog's corpse. With a soft curse, Thorin knelt down beside him and laid down his sword, reaching out to grip one of Bilbo's shoulders.

"Master Baggins," he called quietly, then louder again when Bilbo did not even twitch, "Bilbo!"

Whatever daze had caught the Hobbit abruptly faded, as blue-gray eyes snapped up to look at him. Thorin was briefly taken aback by the emotions in that gaze -- was that grief he was seeing? -- but forcibly he softened his expression a bit, squeezing that thin, trembling shoulder. He realized that Bilbo had bits of Orc blood on his face -- no doubt from Azog -- and carefully, as though he would spook Bilbo, he reached up to wipe the dark substance away with the back of his hand.

Bilbo's cheeks were damp beneath the blood, and Thorin started when he saw more tears in the Hobbit's eyes. "It is over," Thorin said quietly, letting his hand drop away, his voice turning gentle. This Hobbit had suffered so much at the hands of the Orc behind them, and Thorin felt the urge to reassure him that everything would be okay. Bilbo only stared at him, perhaps not even hearing him, but Thorin continued, wanting to express the words that burned in his throat.

"I told you to stay away," he said quietly, and he did not move his gaze away from Bilbo's, caught by those dark eyes that spoke of secrets and emotions that Thorin could hardly understand. "I told you there was no place for you here, that you are no fighter. I was wrong, Bilbo Baggins, and I thank you with the heart that still beats because of your actions today." He bowed his head briefly, then looked at Bilbo again, his gaze softening. "Azog the Defiler is dead. You need not fear him anymore. The war is over, and we won through your actions alone." 

A moment passed, then Bilbo's face crumpled, tears spilling over his cheeks again. He bowed his head, and Thorin felt his chest ache briefly, knowing that this poor boy had been in pain for far too long. He curled his hand around the back of Bilbo's neck and pulled him closer, letting Bilbo lean against him, and small hands reached up to grip his armor, the thin body extremely tense for a moment before Bilbo relaxed, just enough to let himself cry. Thorin felt a small sob against his neck, and he closed his eyes briefly, wondering how long Bilbo had waited for this day.

Then Dwalin walked up, asking loudly and worriedly if he was alright, and Thorin felt a rush of relief that his friend had survived. He had to let go of Bilbo and stand, wincing at the movement but straightening, a lightness in his feet that had not been there before. "I'm fine, I am unhurt, just... give me a moment," Thorin said, and Dwalin nodded gruffly, glancing briefly at the Hobbit before backing off, going to find his brother who was organizing a team to find their dead.

Thorin looked down at Bilbo, who had noticed the blood on his hands and was trying to wipe it off on his pants. He would have to ask if there were still any Hobbit clothes left in the camp -- if not, he would have to find someone small enough to lend Bilbo some clothes. He remained silent as Bilbo wiped his hands off, the expression on Bilbo's face reminding him of a darker time. "Do not forget your sword," he said suddenly, and Bilbo looked up at him, nonplussed beyond his reddened eyes. "And do not worry. We will clean up when we get back. Come," he said, holding out his hand, and Bilbo stared at it for a long moment.

Then he reached up and took Thorin's hand, eerily like the first time they had met, and Thorin pulled him up easily, glancing over Bilbo but seeing no obvious wounds -- except his shirt looked strangely singed, and there, the bruise on his cheek from the other day was purpling fiercely. There was blood on the side of his head, and Thorin twitched when he realized it came from an odd cut on his ear. Yet Bilbo's eyes were clear for all that they had been darkened with grief before, and Thorin gave his hand a squeeze before letting go.

"It's really over, isn't it?" the Hobbit murmured, gaze flitting past Thorin to the pale corpses beyond.

"Yes," Thorin said quietly, and he thought of how he would be dead if Bilbo had not ignored him and snuck into their war, like a burglar creeping into the hoard of gold of his forefathers. He wanted to yell at Bilbo for risking his life, but the Hobbit looked so lost that he did not have the heart. Later, when they were done with this, when their dead had been buried in stone or sent back to their kin, when Thorin could allow himself to relax -- then maybe he would let his temper go, and maybe not even at the Hobbit.

For now, he had to see to his people. "Will you stay with me?" he asked Bilbo, looking down to meet his gaze, a dark thought building in the back of his mind, that maybe, just maybe, Bilbo would disappear into the halls of Moria and never return, if Thorin gave him the slightest chance to be alone with his thoughts.

Bilbo looked reluctant, but Thorin did not stop staring until the Hobbit finally nodded, the movement slow and careful, and Thorin noticed how this time, Bilbo's eyes did not look past him at Azog's corpse but flitted away anxiously. So he clasped Bilbo's shoulder -- and this time, Bilbo tensed so quickly that Thorin felt awkward suddenly. He squeezed briefly and let go, giving Bilbo his space and looking around for Dwalin.

"This way," he said, looking back at Bilbo and giving him a small nod. When Bilbo fell into step beside him, he began to walk, already looking toward the future, beside the Hobbit that had saved his life and turned the tide of one of the most important wars of his people. He would see to it that Bilbo would never want for anything again -- that forever, he would be welcome at any Dwarf table or hearth, for his actions today. And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to speak to Bilbo more, to help him in any way he could, for saving his life. There was no lesser honor than to repay such a grand deed, and Thorin would never forgive himself if he could not show his gratitude and respect for the Hobbit at his side.

It was hours later, Bilbo trailing behind him silently and helping where he could while Thorin directed his warriors to take the dead back to their camp, when they heard the great roar from below, that made every person in that hall freeze.

~

Deep in the caves of Moria, far past the point where any living being had ventured in years save Orcs who sought alliance and help, Gandalf the Gray walked, his mind troubled and his expression dark.

His mind was not on the corrupted spirit of darkness he would soon face, but on the Hobbits that had brought about this journey through the Misty Mountains. He had seen far too many dark, terrible things in his long lifetime, but the enslavement and torture of the Hobbits, the kindest, simplest creatures in Middle Earth, had touched him in a way that many others had not. The Shire had always been his favorite place of Middle-Earth, and the Hobbits some of his favorite people. Yet they had been attacked and taken, tormented and killed. It was hard for him to see what good this dark act would bear in the future.

He was thankful for Thorin Oakenshield, who had done many great things during his reign in Erebor: maintained the peace and protection of the northern ranges and of the forests of Mirkwood, expanded the population and strength of his people through careful trade and mining -- and he had not hidden away the wealth, but shared it, drawing more and more people to the city of Dale, which had grown quite prosperous indeed. Instead of hiding in their caves, the Dwarves had become a celebrated race, respected by most of Middle-Earth, though Gandalf had his doubts that the Elves thought as highly of the Dwarves as the other races did.

And now, Thorin would finish his march through the Misty Mountains, to reclaim the ancient cities of the Dwarves and save the Hobbits from certain doom. For that, Thorin had every respect Gandalf could give.

It broke his heart, though, to know that so many had died, that so many had suffered. The Tooks, grand as they were, had mostly escaped the carnage, having been off on adventures and engaged in trade far from the Shire. The Brandybucks, too, had mostly survived the ordeal, but so many other families -- so many Hobbits had died.

The Baggins family. Only a few of the well-respected Bagginses remained alive, and of them, one of the dearest to him: Bilbo Baggins. Gandalf had known Belladonna Took since she was just a very small child, and she had been so dear to him, with her love of adventuring and her vast curiosity for how the world worked. He had been overjoyed for her when she had married and had a child, after believing for years it would never happen. Yet somehow Bungo Baggins had caught her heart and held it close, and Bilbo had been born.

Such a precocious child he had been, just like his mother. But unlike the Took family which celebrated creativity and a daring personality, Bilbo's dreams of faraway places and exciting things had been stunted by the Hobbit who had loved Belladonna so much he had built a home out of nothing for her. When Gandalf had met Belladonna years later, she had confided in him how she worried for Bilbo, who had become much more serious and Baggins-like than she preferred, no longer the wild scion of the Took line.

Yet still Bilbo had survived the past seven years with a tenacity that left Gandalf stunned. That poor, poor boy. Pain-bearer, they had called him, and Gandalf could not have ignored such a heavy title, not when the scars on Bilbo's thin body attested to his strength, not when Bilbo flinched when Gandalf stood up tall or reached out to clasp his shoulder. He could only hope that Bilbo would someday heal from the deep wounds on his heart and soul.

He had left the battle above, not wishing to be apart from the war but knowing that he had to find the terrible spirit that haunted these mines. It had been halfway through Thorin's march that Gandalf had learned of the Balrog, from something an Orc had said:

_"Hope they'll be deep in the caves by the end of it, meet the fire terror --"_

The fire terror. The nameless terror. The unknown spirit which had been seduced and corrupted by the evil of the world. The Balrog, a Maiar so far gone to darkness that Gandalf feared he would too fall in this battle. He did not know if his strength was enough to defeat such a creature.

Durin's Bane, they had called it long ago, but many had forgotten it, even the Dwarves who had feared it for so long. The fire terror -- such words had sparked a memory in one of the oldest of their march, who had remembered something he had read of the fall of Durin -- and it was from that they deduced that the creature lived deep in the caves of Moria.

If it actually existed. That was Gandalf's duty, to determine the validity of the claim and to handle the creature if he met it. Yet he did not know what would happen if he did meet it -- he had heard the stories from long ago, but he had never met one himself. It worried him, but if a Balrog did exist, then there were greater things afoot here. Gandalf had to know.

In his right hand, he held his staff aloft, lighting his way, and in his left hand, he held the Elvish blade that Bilbo had shown him, that fit into his palm like the hand of an old friend. He was prepared, though he worried inside. So when he felt the intense aura of evil that seeped out from the darkness ahead, he strode forward without faltering, the light of his staff brightening as he reached deep into himself and called upon the power that had guided him for many ages.

The roar of the Balrog echoed through the caves and shook the mountains themselves, as Gandalf and Durin's Bane met in historic battle, some might say too early, but nevertheless fated all the same.


	12. So weary, yet forward we trudge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Meanings**  
>  _Atkât!_ \-- Silence!  
>  _ghâsh-dâgalûr_ \-- fire demon

As he walked the hall of the dead, trailing Thorin while the Dwarf King commanded his soldiers to tend to this person or drag that goblin corpse away, Bilbo felt numb, an odd dullness pervading his senses and blocking his thoughts from taking more shape than _you'd think I'd be tired by now_.

But he wasn't. Tired or otherwise, despite the aches in his feet and chest. Strangely wired even though he had barely slept in the past two days and had been running around for hours, Bilbo followed Thorin and helped where he was needed. A healer had already looked at him and bandaged his ear up, rubbed some of that strange salve -- _ointment_ \-- on his chest, but Bilbo was too distracted to care much about the physical pain.

Instead, he was quite busy avoiding the inevitable mental pain.

Azog was dead -- _**no no no** do not think about it! Do -- not -- think -- _

At all, if he could. Bilbo was quite relieved to be given tasks to complete for Thorin and the Dwarves, including carrying weapons and helping the healers when they needed someone for support. Some dark thoughts strayed in his mind -- _you're only doing this because you don't have a master anymore, you need a new one, doesn't that king fit perfectly?_ \-- but Bilbo ignored them resolutely. He could break down later and argue his mind to silence when he was not in the middle of an army of Dwarves, all of whom stared at him with silent respect, who offered their services whenever he showed the slightest bit of weariness, who brought him water when he did not think he needed it and offered to help him clean his sword.

That moment had been particularly painful, but Bilbo was nothing if not determined in pretending that everything was fine. So he had allowed the stout red-haired Dwarf -- Glóin, brother of Óin -- to show him how to wipe away the black substance -- _blood, **his** blood, it was on his hands and clothes too_ \-- from his short sword, which the Dwarf handled with such care that it actually made Bilbo curious for a moment.

"Is it really that nice a sword?" he asked Glóin, who gave him a surprised look.

"I'd say so, lad -- it saved my king Thorin, did it not? Treat it with care," he said gruffly, and Bilbo nodded, nonplussed but unwilling to continue the line of thinking -- _this sword saved him, but it killed **him**_ \--

His mind would not be silent, and Bilbo was starting to wish for a blunt object to shut it up. Maybe then he could sleep properly. Frustrated with his own thoughts, he tied the sword around his hips with the leather strap he had acquired, and he felt a tiny bit better knowing it was there.

Hours trickled by, and Bilbo continued to pretend that he was not on the verge of emotional and physical collapse. He went where he was needed and helped those who were in pain, wiping the blood from their faces as the healers set their legs or bandaged their stomachs. He gave water to the thirsty and sent occasional glances to Thorin, who watched him as he worked but did not speak to him much. To those who were near death, he merely sat with them until their eyes grew cloudy, and a few times he sang softly of green hills and yellow flowers weaved into curly hair, stroking braids crusted with blood until the pained wheezing stopped.

Just as he had for the Hobbits who had died for Azog, so he did for the Dwarves who died for Thorin.

Not once did the Dwarves attempt to shoo him away. They carried an odd respect for him now, accepting his help and thanking him at every turn. Instead of trying to make him sleep or sit down or simply _rest_ , they gave him water or pushed a bowl of salve into his hands to stir or gave him yet another task that would keep his hands and mind busy. Bilbo was thankful for it, but he could not speak his gratitude. He barely spoke at all, except to sing to the dying and offer his services to the next Dwarf.

All the while, Thorin walked with him, never ordering him to do something again, but always _present_ in the background, and Bilbo was comforted by hearing his deep voice nearby. Whatever the back of his mind whispered, Bilbo was glad to follow Thorin, who at least did not toss him aside and ignore him after what had happened. There was respect in that blue gaze whenever Thorin glanced over at him, respect that Bilbo returned -- but something else broiled in his thoughts, a darkness that he could not handle right now.

A few times when his mind was too loud, his fingers brushed his pocket where his treasures were hidden, but Bilbo never thought more of the rings than _I'm glad they haven't slipped out in all this chaos_. Inevitably he would push the dark thoughts away and focus on what he was doing, and the urge to touch the rings would fade away, his hands returning to his work. It was easier to keep his mind quiet if he had something else to concentrate on.

At the moment Bilbo was staring at the floor, sipping from a container of cool water. Thorin was standing nearby speaking to that other pair of brothers, Balin and Dwalin, having ordered the majority of the army back to their camp with the wounded and dead, and all that was left now was to burn the corpses of the Orcs and goblins. That would be the last task, and it was nearly ready. The floor was mostly clear, past the horrible black and red stains that had since dried, and the Dwarves that remained in the hall numbered only in the dozens, not the thousands that had packed into the caverns before.

Then the ground roared, and such terror seized Bilbo that he dropped the container, his head whipping around to stare past Thorin at the dark end of the hall, not noticing as cold water splashed on his toes. Every Dwarf in the hall froze and turned as Bilbo did, and for a moment, they all held their breaths in the terror. Then a gasp broke the silence, and everyone began shouting, running about, rushing to Thorin who stood with blazing blue eyes, still staring at the darkness.

" _Atkât!_ Be calm!" Thorin shouted, and his soldiers quieted immediately, trusting in their commander. "Gandalf," he muttered, reaching back to grip his axe for a moment. "He must have found the demon. He told us not to follow, but --"

"Thorin!" Balin said shortly, reaching up to grip Thorin's arm. "You cannot! We need our king, especially after your close --" He glanced at Bilbo and shut his mouth, but did not let go of Thorin, who scowled but let go of his axe.

"I know, but if that demon defeats him..."

"Trust in the Wizard," Dwalin grumbled, though he too was glaring into the darkness. "We brought him to deal with the demon, after all."

Thorin's scowl deepened, but after a moment he turned back to the Dwarves and issued short orders for them to continue, Dwalin moving away to direct the work for the fire. "We must hurry back then," he said quietly, glancing sidelong at Bilbo, who noticed his attention but had not looked away from the darkness. Had his master's sentries really --?

The dullness that had blurred his mind for the past several hours faded away abruptly, leaving Bilbo with a foreboding realization, dread growing in his stomach. He stepped closer to Thorin, eyes darting between the King and the darkness. "You mean the _fire demon_? That's what Gandalf is facing?" he asked quickly, an anxious note entering his voice as he spoke for the first time in hours, a shiver running through him as he thought of the monster that haunted the caves below.

After watching the darkness for a moment, he realized that nobody had answered, and he looked back to see Thorin and Balin staring at him with wide eyes. Disturbed by their expressions, he stepped back warily. "What?"

"What did you say, lad?" Balin said, and Bilbo noticed that he was paler than before.

" _Ghâsh-dâgalûr_... oh, dear," Bilbo muttered, realizing abruptly what had bothered them. He had not spoken in Westron; instead, he had spoken the Orcs' word for the Balrog. Face flushing slowly, he looked away and crossed his arms, shame filling him. He had never spoken any of the Orkish he had heard before; the language made him feel sick sometimes just from hearing it, but there was no other word he knew for the monster. 

Another moment passed, and he heard someone step toward him, which made him tense up badly, but no one touched him, and finally he looked up to see Thorin watching him, blue eyes hooded.

"First Khuzdul, now the language of Mordor... you really are a fascinating creature," Thorin said quietly, and Balin glanced sharply at him, but Bilbo was too distracted by the look on Thorin's face.

He felt his cheeks flush uncomfortably and looked back down, shrugging. "I've always been clever, and if... well, that's all he -- they spoke, so I just... got to understand it. And I heard... him -- he told them to go find it, earlier," he said quietly.

If Thorin or Balin noticed how he refused to say his former master's name, neither made comment of it. Bilbo chanced a glance back at them and saw that Thorin was watching him still, while Balin stroked his beard contemplatively. "Then it knew we were coming," Balin said after a moment, glancing up at Thorin.

Thorin looked past Bilbo into the darkness, blue eyes narrowing. "Perhaps," he said quietly, and Bilbo wondered at how Thorin seemed to read into everything so easily. "Azog may have sent scouts to find Durin's Bane, but who knows if they found it, or if it did not sense Gandalf first."

Bilbo, who had frozen at the mention of his former master, was tempted very suddenly to run in the other direction. Instead he focused on Thorin's words, letting another puzzle take his attention. "Durin's Bane?"

Balin glanced at him again. "What we call the demon," he said, and Thorin nodded beside him, blue eyes staying on the darkness. "Gandalf called it a Balrog, but the Dwarves have always called it Durin's Bane, as it was the creature that drove the Dwarves from these mountains long ago, when it woke and slew our King Durin IV, many centuries ago."

Interested in the history behind the monster, but too disturbed by the thought of it coming anywhere near them, Bilbo shivered and rubbed at his arms, which caught Thorin's notice. "We should leave now," the tall Dwarf said, turning and striding back to the others, who were preparing to leave. "Dwalin! Light the fire now!"

Balin hurried to follow, and after a moment, Bilbo reached down to pick up the metal container which was now empty, capping it and tying it to his belt, then walking quickly after them. He stopped behind Thorin and looked past him, his eyes widening to see Dwalin walk out of the room where they had dragged all of the Orc and goblin corpses. Smoke already followed him, but Dwalin turned and threw a gleaming torch inside, causing the light from inside the room to flare suddenly -- and then Dwalin shut the doors, which glowed briefly before they melted away and left nothing but wall with the faintest outline of a doorway.

Thorin ordered his Dwarves to march, and they began to leave the great hall through one of the side corridors. Bilbo lingered, though, and gazed at the wall, wondering if he was imagining the faint glow behind the lines of the door.

His master's body was in there. Bilbo knew this for sure -- he had watched himself as it had been dragged inside the room, the pale corpse limp and empty of life, of heat, as Bilbo had always known him. He allowed himself to look away after a moment, looking across the hall which still stunk of Orcs and death, stacks of bloodied weapons here and there, the shanties and upper walkways empty of the calls and hoots that the Orcs would be crying now, if they had won this war and his master was still alive.

But the Orcs were gone, his master was dead, and Bilbo thought to himself, _Never again._

Never again would he look upon this hall, and a fierce satisfaction overtook him for a moment, relishing the thought of never seeing another Orc hut or hearing those drums again. As for his master --

"Bilbo," came a quiet voice from behind him, and Bilbo turned to see Thorin standing there watching him. 

They gazed at each other for a long moment, and neither said anything. Bilbo turned and walked past Thorin to where Balin and Glóin waited. Thorin followed, and they began to hurry back to the camp with the rest of the Dwarves, all wary from hearing the roar of the Balrog, yet with each step he took away from the halls of his torment, Bilbo's shoulders eased bit by bit. All the while, he was watched by Thorin, who could not take his eyes from the Hobbit who had saved his life and turned their war into complete victory.

~

When they reached the camp later, Thorin could tell with just a glance that the Hobbit was near to passing out. Bilbo had walked with the Dwarves without complaint, but he was sometimes slower than the others, and occasionally he would turn his attention inward. What Bilbo was thinking after everything, Thorin did not know, but he stayed close to the Hobbit in case he abruptly fell or expressed any of his pain.

Bilbo expressed no pain, though, and they continued silently. As they walked between the tents, Thorin was relieved to see that despite the lingering aura of terror in the air, Dwalin had commanded the soldiers well. He stepped forward when his commanders and head healers came to meet him, giving him the news he wanted to know. The bodies wrapped in black rested in another cave off to the side, and the wounded were on their way to healing, though there were many proud warriors that may yet leave them to Mahal's house. Though Thorin felt as exhausted as Bilbo looked, he still had much to handle, many people to see and the dying to pay respects to, their next steps to ascertain, the names of the dead to write down -- and then Dwalin pushed him aside and scowled at him.

"You are going to bed, and don't think I won't bully you into it," Dwalin uttered lowly, making Thorin glare at him. "Just because we're both falling over our knees can't mean I won't trounce you if you try to get past me."

Thorin debated taking him up on that, but he knew in the end that sleep would do him well. Most everything could wait for a few hours, as the majority of the army was resting or nursing their wounds, and already some of the individual battalions were preparing to return to their kin. There was nothing to be done to help Gandalf, though Thorin did not trust sleeping when there was that fire demon down below.

But he was about to collapse. So he nodded and clasped Dwalin's shoulder, giving him another half-hearted glare before turning back to those who waited for him.

"For now we rest, and anyone who has already recovered enough to keep watch, put them at the entrances to guard. In a few hours --"

"Six," Dwalin muttered behind him.

"-- _Six_ hours, to be precise, I will meet with the commanders, and we will form a plan. The first sign of the demon's fire, sound every battle horn, and first sign of Gandalf, wake me personally. Go now and rest." He watched as the commanders bowed and strode back to their groups, though the healers lingered, no doubt ready to strip him of his armor and cluck over his wounds. Thorin gave them a glare, but they did not flinch, and he had to admire their resilience.

He swept his gaze past Balin, who was giving him and Dwalin a small smile, to the slender figure that stood at the edge of the group, arms crossed and gaze dark. Thorin debated for a moment on where to send Bilbo -- to the healers? to his cousins' tent? -- but a flash of memory, of Bilbo heaving a sob after seeing Azog's fall, made him reconsider. He walked over to Bilbo quietly and stopped a few respectful paces from him, clearing his throat to catch Bilbo's attention.

It did not work. So Thorin tried again, louder, and finally the Hobbit turned to look at him. All too easily, Thorin could read the exhaustion and distant shock in his expression. What Bilbo needed was rest, but how could he rest in a place of strangers? None of his kin were here, and there was no one here that he trusted.

"Master Baggins, we will rest now. Since the tent you stayed in before now holds the wounded, where would you prefer to sleep? There is the tent of my cousin Glóin, or Balin and Dwalin here," Thorin said, watching Bilbo's face as he spoke and seeing the flickers of worry and distrust. After a moment he offered his last thought, hesitant as he did so, not wanting to alarm the Hobbit who had spent the last seven years a slave to his enemy... nor did he want to cause Bilbo undue stress from his presence. He knew how trauma could haunt a person. "There is also... ah, my tent, where a bed can easily be made for you. I have my promise, after all."

Bilbo watched him, dark gray-blue eyes brightening a bit with more life at his last words, and Thorin felt relieved that Bilbo was not completely gone. "To protect me," the Hobbit said quietly, and Thorin nodded.

"Just so," he said. Thorin had promised Bilbo he would keep him safe -- and after what Bilbo had done for him, there was no possibility that Thorin would let him stay in a place where he could not relax even the slightest. Thorin wanted, especially, to give Bilbo the choice, since he doubted that Bilbo had had many choices not guided by Azog or the protection of his kin in the years of his enslavement. Bilbo was not the first slave he had encountered, after all, and some of the healers who had helped the Hobbits had confided in him later that giving the Hobbits their independence back was a key step in recovering from slavery.

Bilbo hesitated, glancing past Thorin at the others, and Thorin followed his gaze. The healers that waited for him and his friends, Balin, Dwalin, and Glóin, never looked away, respect in their gazes, and Thorin was warmed by their support. They had seen what Bilbo had done for him, such an act of bravery -- and they would never try to hurt him, nor ever speak ill of him.

After a moment Bilbo looked back at him, and Thorin gave him a faint smile to reassure him. Finally the Hobbit nodded and relaxed a little, his arms falling from their position of hugging his thin body. "I suppose I'll stay with you, then," Bilbo said, and Thorin felt rather pleased at the chance to show Bilbo his hospitality, even in these dismal circumstances.

"This way, then," he said, turning to walk back to his tent, and after a moment Bilbo followed, along with the healers who would take a look at both of them before they would rest. Balin, Dwalin, and Glóin went about their own business, the three exchanging glances but never saying anything about the strange pair ahead of them.

~

When at last the healers had deemed Thorin well enough that his glares had the effect to make them leave, Bilbo was treated to the sight of Thorin heaving a great sigh and hanging his head in his hands. The King was sitting on the edge of the pile of blankets and pillows that was his bed, his wounds wrapped with bandages and wearing clean clothes. He had argued fiercely with the healers, but Bilbo could tell that most of it was for show; Thorin never actually pushed them away or snapped at them too harshly. It almost made Bilbo smile, but he was much too tired to respond other than to let the healers take care of him, even though he was tense the entire time.

Bilbo himself was sitting on a smaller bed that had been hastily put together but a little while ago, his bandages changed and his wounds rechecked, his belt resting to the side, wearing a new shirt that was too large on him and soft brown pants, but he was thankful for them all the same. The gash in his head from when he had hit the wall -- was it really two days ago? -- was showing signs of infection, but the rest of his wounds were healing cleanly, and the healers were determined that he rest and regain his strength to help his body recover. Now that the group of Dwarves had left, Bilbo allowed himself to relax, just a bit.

Across the tent, Thorin lifted his head and fixed his blue gaze on Bilbo, which Bilbo returned, a bit befuddled. Surely the King did not want to talk, not after everything? He could feel his body swaying a bit from the exertion of sitting up, and he knew he should be falling asleep. Yet Bilbo could not lie down any more than he could close his eyes. Every time his eyes drifted shut, even for a moment, he saw his master's -- _former master, don't ever forget_ \-- surprised look, heard the murmur of _nûl-lûpûrz_ in his ear.

His master -- _former_ master... _Azog's_ death would always haunt him, maybe as much as the screams of the children and the tears of his mother.

Thorin was still watching him, and Bilbo only blinked at him, not willing to pull together the energy to frown. Finally the King's lips twitched, though perhaps not into a smile. "What do you want to do after this?" Thorin asked, and Bilbo could not tell what he meant, that blue gaze steady as Thorin watched him.

"...Do?" he asked after a moment, his eyebrows creasing.

"I promised to send you back to Bree. When you get there, what do you want to do?" Thorin asked again, giving Bilbo a clearer meaning.

 _Want._ He had been fixated on one _want_ for so long, that he had no idea what else he might desire. His dreams, though, had come true -- his master... _Azog_ was dead. And yet Bilbo lived, despite all of his expectations. He had never once imagined a life after surviving this hell, and the question posed by Thorin completely bewildered him. Want? What did he want?

Unbidden, an image of rolling green hills dotted with bright yellow flowers, soft dirt paths, and little crooks and ponds appeared in his head, and tears came to Bilbo's eyes. The Shire was _gone_ \-- and yet Bilbo yearned for it, for the Shire he had always loved. His mother, his father, his many aunts and uncles and cousins and neighbors -- he wanted to see them all again. He wanted to go _home_.

Tears stung at his eyes, but he did not look away from Thorin's blue, blue gaze, so different from Azog's. "I want to see the sun again," he whispered, and started when he felt wetness on his cheeks. "I want to eat apple tarts again, and cook fish with lemon, and sneak carrots out of the farmer's fields, and find mushrooms under the trees --" 

But his voice broke on _mushrooms_ and he had to bow his head, hiding his tears beneath his hands. Would he ever be able to eat a mushroom again? Would any of the Hobbits who had lived in Azog's halls be able to eat a mushroom without wondering -- fearing -- that it would bring black death in the morning? Sometimes he had held one of those slimy black mushrooms in his hands and wondered what it might taste like, how quickly he might succumb to its poison, and he never, _ever_ wanted to feel that way again. He wanted to pick a whole basket of mushrooms and eat them all, fry them in butter, roast them with leeks and herbs and eat them _all_ until he was so stuffed that he would have a fat belly for _days_ \--

He realized that Thorin had grown silent, but thankfully the King stayed where he was, and Bilbo continued to sob into his hands, quiet noises that nonetheless echoed in the silent tent. He curled up on his side on the soft blankets and rocked himself, hating that he was showing such shameful behavior in front of the person who had saved him, but not once did Thorin scoff or tell him to be silent. Then Thorin spoke to him in a rather gentle voice, and Bilbo's sobs slowed a bit as he listened, opening his eyes halfway in the darkness.

"You will see the sunlight again, Bilbo. You will eat all the apple tarts and fish and carrots and mushrooms you can find, and soon you will be a properly stout Hobbit again. You will be normal again, with normal feelings and normal friends and normal beliefs, and no one will _ever_ take that from you again. I promise you this, Bilbo Baggins. You are free, no longer _his_ , and never will you be subjected to such horrors again.

"Wherever you go, know that you will be welcome in my house, if ever you have need. My home in Erebor -- have you ever read of it? No words can do its halls justice -- the majesty of that mountain cannot be said simply. It is beautiful, though -- the halls shine with the craft of thousands of Dwarves, and there is no end to the caverns of gold, gems, and ores. Outside the mountain there are golden hills and wide fields, endless with their flowers, and in the spring you can smell it all the way down in the forges, the scents of myrtle and honeysuckle and..."

Bilbo's eyelids grew heavy, and despite the pain in his heart, despite wanting things that were dead and gone, he nonetheless fell asleep to the soft tone of Thorin's voice, speaking of a faraway place that sounded a bit like the Shire and a bit like something from a distant dream. No nightmares disturbed his slumber, even after Thorin's voice faded and the King too slept. Finally Bilbo rested, his pain soothed by soft-edged dreams of green hills that turned golden as he walked forward.

~

In fire and darkness they met. The fury of the Balrog scorched him -- but inside Gandalf felt a great sadness open up, knowing that this was once one of his kin. So long ago it had been -- who was this spirit, twisted so by darkness? Who had it been? Someone he had known, someone he had loved? Had they served Nienna together, or had this spirit belonged to another of the Valar? There was no telling, no knowing, no way of turning the spirit back to what it once was -- just as he could no longer return to his former state, not while he stayed here.

So they battled, and though the evil in the spirit growled and howled and roared, Gandalf met it blow to blow, determined to win, both to protect the Dwarves and Hobbit -- and he _knew_ that Bilbo had not yet left, there had been no mistaking the head of curly hair sneaking about in the shadows -- and to send the poor spirit on its way, to end the corruption and the spread of evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again your epic support astonishes me. Thank you for the comments and fanarts and loves and everything! I love you all! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> For those of you worrying about this being close to the end -- fear not! The story is definitely not over! There is a long and optimistic plot for this story that stretches far beyond the caves of Moria -- after all, the main pairing is Thorin/Bilbo, and there have been only _hints_ of that so far. ;D So this story may be quite long, and I hope you don't get tired of me!
> 
> Check out [this magnificent fanart](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/40973166525/pain-bearer-wip-by-lilithiumwords-au-dark) by Ewe, of that moment at the end of Chapter 10! ;________;


	13. As ever, the dawn will come again

_Sunlight, bright in his eyes. Blue skies that stretched forever, clouds drifting softly, curling into shapes of animals and letters that Bilbo called out with glee. Soft laughter behind him, and Bilbo turned, beaming._

_Long curls obscured the sun, such a deep blonde that they were almost russet. Blue eyes twinkled at him, and Bilbo laughed when he saw the love in that smile, the sweet smile that greeted him every morning and kissed him to sleep every night. This person was the light of his life, his favorite person in the world -- **was** his entire world. _

_Happiness. Utter bliss. Blue eyes, such a deep color, like the river -- they smiled down at him, and lithe fingers reached up to pinch his cheek. He raised his arms, and he was lifted and twirled. He shrieked with laughter, and warm arms embraced him, held him close. He never wanted for anything, not when he was with her._

_**Mama.** _

_She set him down and took his hand, walking with him across green fields, brilliant with clover and tall grasses that gleamed. He grasped handfuls of yellow flowers and tucked them into her skirts, giggling when she nudged him under his chin. On the edge of their forever, the greens slowly changed to gold, the yellow flowers to white and purple, but Bilbo never noticed, as he danced around his mother and sang with her, and she laughed and cried and held his hands._

_Then she stopped walking, and Bilbo looked back. She stood at the edge of green hills, yellow flowers in her hair, and she smiled at him, so wide and happy, but her cheeks were wet. He opened his mouth to ask why -- but she shook her head, and pointed past him. He turned; golden fields with white flowers, waving gently at him, beckoning._

_A new place. A new place to explore, to have new adventures, to find new things, to meet new people. He turned back to take her hand -- they should go together -- but she was gone._

_"Mama?"_

_She did not answer._

_"Mama? Mama!" He ran and ran, but she was nowhere to be found. Soon the green hills were gone too, and all Bilbo had left was the expanse of unknown. He did not know what to do._

_The wind brushed his hair, and he looked back to the expanse of golden fields, unsure. There was no other choice, though, so he turned and began to walk forward, into the bright unknown._

~

"Mama..."

He was dimly aware of someone brushing his curls back, of a low humming close to his ear. He turned his head into the soft fur, cheeks brushing dampness. Someone pulled something heavy and soft over him -- so soft, so unlike the matted furs and dingy cushion he always slept on. Bilbo sighed in his throat, relaxing into the gentle warmth, and knew no more.

~

Warmth. Softness. The smells of stone, fire... grass? Nothing like his cushion. _Must be a dream, a quite lovely one..._ Bilbo sighed and pressed closer to the dream-pillow, indulging in the illusion for a bit longer. Soon he would wake, and likely his master would be irritated over one thing or another, and Bilbo would have to pacify him, lest Azog lose his temper and --

_But Azog is dead._

His eyes flew open. He was not lying on his cushion, but on a clean mat stuffed with sweet-smelling grasses, a soft fur pelt acting as his pillow, while a thick woven blanket covered him. He was not in Azog's room, but in a tent filled with maps and scrolls and another bed, larger and messy, but very empty. When his wide-eyed gaze landed on the axe leaning against the wall, Bilbo remembered.

_Thorin. Battle. His sword. His master's jealousy, rage. Fury, gone in an instant, faded like the last ember, in a face he had hated every night for seven years. A relief so deep that it shook him, a grief so strong he wept. His master, dead._

He was alive. The Hobbits had been taken away to their freedom. He was a guest in the Dwarf King's tent, _free_... and Azog was dead.

He stared at the axe for a time, remembering the battle and the terrifying moments trapped in Azog's grasp, those heady thoughts of _he can't die_ and in the confusion, in the rush of _please no_ , he knew not whether he meant Azog or Thorin. But Thorin was not the one who had died yesterday.

_Nûl-lûpûrz._

How could he have even thought of wanting Azog to live? Was he that twisted? Maybe it was better he was separated from the rest, maybe he had become a monster and had not noticed, he had spoken the language of evil yesterday, after all, so easily -- maybe Thorin kept him not as a guest, but as a prisoner, because he might snap and hurt someone as easily as he had killed Azog --

 _No,_ a part of his mind whispered. _You are not evil. You still hold good in your soul._

He clung to that thought, not wanting to believe in the alternative. He was not evil. He was not a bad person. Right? But it was true, and Bilbo understood this well, that Azog had been a fixed point in his life for the past seven years, and he had come to rely on Azog's mercy for survival. Azog had held his life in his pale hands, and nothing had hurt Bilbo, save Azog himself... and yet, Bilbo had survived. For relying on Azog, for trusting in his master -- did that make him a bad person? 

Yet his actions had protected the Hobbits; they had been punished less, had not been raped, had not been murdered ruthlessly. In the darkness of Moria, it had made sense to give himself to Azog in exchange for their safety, but now, surrounded by normal people with normal values, Bilbo wondered if he was a monster after all.

His chest was hurting. Bilbo reached up to rub at it and remembered Azog pressing him against the smoldering door, but beneath the pain in his skin, he felt an odd tightness in his chest. It felt like all of the past three days had been a dream. Maybe it was -- maybe he would wake up and he would be back in that room, maybe hitting his head so badly had caused this delusion, this intense hallucination, and suddenly he hoped _please don't let this be a dream_ , but if he waited, if he hoped too hard, it would all fade away and he would wake up crying again and no, he would not be able to handle it if this was a dream.

Bilbo reached down to his knee and pinched himself so hard that when he let go, stunned at the pain, he realized he had made himself bleed. This was no dream -- right? This was reality, and Bilbo did not know whether to laugh or cry.

He curled up and hid his face in the soft fur of his bed for several moments, his shoulders shaking slightly, the pain which had taken such a harsh toll on his soul slowly seeping away, the balm of freedom, of fierce relief, soothing his heart. When he lifted his head, he realized that his eyes were dry, but he felt raw, twisted -- he had been through too much.

All of his doubts and worries, the pains of living as an Orc's slave, the exhaustion -- it had been wearing on Bilbo for so long that to be free of it felt far too strange. He could not simply forget, could not pretend that it had not happened, but he wanted to, so badly. He wanted to fall asleep and wake up seven years ago, still an innocent young Hobbit who may not have known what he wanted out of life, but he had been _happy_ , happy to spend forever in his little world, of his books and garden and father and mother.

_Mother._

Just thinking of Belladonna Baggins sent a shiver through Bilbo. Had she been in his dreams again? His sweet mam, his beloved mama, his dear mother -- the name changed over the years, but what she was to him -- _his love, his world, his light_ \-- never did. He wondered if she would be proud of him for breaking free of Azog's hold. He missed her suddenly, fiercely -- remembered her smile as she held him. She had taught him so much, had given him _so much_ , and though she was long dead, he had killed her murderer, and he was finally free.

Thorin's words came back to him. _What do you want to do?_

He wanted to go home but did not know if he could bear it. Was the Shire still black with death? Was there anything left to Bag-End, his favorite place? Had any of his Baggins relatives survived, had Mirabella and her children escaped, were the Tooks alright? Where would he go now? What would he do? He felt so alone. He had Rory and his Brandybuck kin, of course, but who else? His parents were gone -- his amazing mother and his fine father, whom he had never truly appreciated until Bungo Baggins had lunged in front of him and caught an Orc's club in the chest. Bungo had died protecting them, to keep them from getting killed -- and they had not.

Instead, she had been taken, and Bilbo with her, to a fate far worse than a quick death. But no, he did not want to think of those early days in Azog's grasp. 

He missed his father as fiercely as his mother. Their life had been simple, and Bilbo had been at odds with his father more than a few times, but they had been so happy. He remembered long evenings with the windows open, the scents of orchids and foxgloves drifting inside, and his father would settle into his most comfortable armchair and light his pipe, muttering about how if Bilbo was going to read all night, he might as well read out loud. So Bilbo would, and there would be a soft peace between them, as Bilbo would explore the worlds of faraway while Bungo would relax, sucking on his pipe with his eyes closed, while his mother hummed softly in the background.

His breath hitched. Such gentle times would never happen again. Maybe? What would the future bring, anyway? Bilbo had never known poverty, having well-to-do parents with a big home and lots of leisure, but he knew that it happened, and he understood that now, his life might be spent begging or working hard. He was not afraid of hard work, but the thought of begging left him wary. Too many times he had begged Azog for relief -- but it would not be like that. Right?

His thoughts were circling around, never finding any solution, only revealing more of the darkness he thought he had left behind. He could not bear to sit here and think about it anymore -- so slowly he crawled out of his soft bed and stood. He forced his mind to be blank for a moment as he picked up his sword and wrapped the leather around his waist. Then he crept to the entryway and peered outside, seeing Dwarves milling around and hearing faint songs in the distance, but they were long and sad, with low tunes that reflected anguish. 

Now that he was paying attention, though, Bilbo could smell food -- stews, grilled meats, roasted potatoes, even ale. Many of the Dwarves had smiles on their faces despite the solemn air, and in other tents, laughter and cheering could be heard. Around fires that burned little smoke, Dwarves sat with tankards and smiles, occasionally knocking their drinks together to give respect to someone. Bilbo could hear other songs -- rowdy songs, cheerful songs, songs of celebration. Despite the mourning, despite the wounds, they were _happy_ , joyous, relieved. 

Bilbo wondered at seeing an army that had won a war.

When he pushed the curtains aside and stepped out, Bilbo was hoping to avoid any attention. He wanted to find a tent that had some of that lovely-smelling food and hopefully convince someone to give him a nibble, then he wanted to find a nice nook where he could eat in peace and avoid the healers for a bit longer. But such was not what happened.

Bilbo's attention was caught instead by a call that rang up, and he looked up to see the Dwarves nearby shouting and gesturing in his direction. Stunned, he could only watch as the Dwarves around him began to clap and cheer. After a moment, he realized that they were chanting _his name_.

"It's the Hobbit!"

"Bilbo Baggins!"

"The Hobbit's awake! Someone find the King!"

"BAGGINS! BAGGINS!"

Bewildered and more than a little frightened, he tried to step back into the tent, but hands seized him and picked him up, setting him on broad shoulders. The next few moments were a rush as Bilbo tried not to give himself over to a panic attack. He was carried down the path to the biggest tent of them all, and when he was brought in, the entire tent began to cheer just the same as the others. In the middle of it all was Thorin, speaking to several Dwarves at a large table, and with much ado, Bilbo was carried over to the table and sat down on a bench, feeling quite stunned by the whole experience.

Someone pushed a large plate in front of him and a tankard, and Bilbo's eyes grew wide when he saw the meal there. Fat sausages, roasted potatoes and scones with honey, a wedge of orange cheese, delicately fried slices of some tender meat, and that was just what he could see -- the plate was piled high with food. Someone slapped his back and he tensed up, but then the Dwarf beside him was nudged away, and then the same happened to his other side. Hesitantly, Bilbo turned and looked up.

The cheerful grin of a vaguely familiar face met his gaze, and he realized that the Dwarf standing before him was Bofur, who had been with Thorin when he had been rescued. At his side was a tall Dwarf with thick black hair and streaks of white in his rather large beard, who grinned at him much like Bofur did, which led Bilbo to believe that they might be related.

Bofur beamed at him. "Sorry for the lads! They can be a bit rowdy, 'specially now."

Bilbo gave him a very blank stare, not sure if he should get up and run away, but for some reason, Bofur's smile charmed him enough that he stayed where he was.

Bofur's eyes widened marginally. "Oh, you might not remember me! Bofur, at your service, and this is my cousin --"

"Bifur," came a deep voice, and Bifur nodded to him. "At your service."

Once again Bilbo was left rather bewildered at the manners of Dwarves, but he bowed a bit, feeling somewhat foolish as he tried to find his manners. "Bilbo Baggins, at yours. Um... thank you."

Bofur grinned and sat down beside Bilbo, though unlike the other Dwarves, he did not push Bilbo or touch him, and on Bilbo's other side, Bifur sat as well. A heavy plate appeared in front of each Dwarf, and Bifur nodded to him before he began to eat. Bilbo watched him for a moment, wary, but Bifur did no more than munch away, and so he turned his attention to Bofur, who was smiling at him still.

"Go on, then, Mister Baggins! Eat up, you're skin and bones," Bofur said, picking up his tankard and drinking deeply.

So Bilbo began to eat, sitting between two of the oddest Dwarves he had ever met, but two of the most charming indeed, who did not jostle him or push him or carry on too loudly. He did not eat much compared to his tablemates, but the food was delicious and sat heavily in his poor empty stomach. Bilbo suspected he might be sick later for it, but he gave Bofur a small smile, which Bofur returned with good humor.

"There's a good lad! Everyone's talking about you, you know, with your fancy footwork and how ye saved our King's life!" Bofur said, cheerfully biting into a sausage.

Bilbo felt his cheeks heat up, as he poked at his meal, well aware of blue eyes staring at him from across the large table. "Oh, well, I wouldn't --"

"No, no, don't deny it, Mister Baggins, we all saw what happened. You're a very brave lad -- er, you are a lad, right? Can't tell Hobbit ages well."

Bilbo paused, blinking. "Oh... well, actually, I'm an adult by Hobbit standards. So not technically, but I don't... mind --"

"Oho! You look quite laddish to me, but then, you'd be quite young anyway, to a Dwarf." Bofur grinned and popped a potato into his mouth, then sighed. "These lads, though, the cooks, they just don't have what it takes."

"Nothing like Bombur's," muttered Bifur, and Bilbo raised his eyebrows.

"The potatoes? I quite like them." He pushed the potatoes aside and found a lovely stack of bacon, which made his mouth water.

Bofur grinned at him. "Go on, have some of the fried kidneys, and the rashers too, then. No, I'm saying that my brother can out-cook any of these lads no matter the day. Too bad he didn't come -- stayed in Erebor with his pretty wife -- but if you tasted his potatoes, or his meat pies or his stews, you'd scoff at everything you ever ate, too."

"Spoiled, we are," muttered Bifur, and Bofur nodded.

"Completely! If you're ever in Erebor, don't hesitate to find any of us! We'll show you what real food tastes like," he said, winking at Bilbo.

Bilbo could not help but notice that even as Bofur chatted, he was steadily polishing off his large meal, whereas Bilbo had barely touched his in comparison. It seemed that Dwarves ate just as much as Hobbits did -- and for a moment, Bilbo missed the days of elevensies and second lunches. Then he shook himself and bit into a sausage, sighing at the flavor.

Despite Bofur's insistence, to Bilbo this _was_ real food. Not porridge or grain or gruel, but real meat, tender and rich. He took a bite of the cheese and nearly cried at how sharp it was, yet it melted on his tongue so perfectly. Then he had to have a bite of bacon, and the taste reminded him of that morning with Rory and Great Aunt Adaldrida making sure he ate enough. Then he realized that Bofur and Bifur were giving him the same -- space, so that he could relax while the Dwarves cheered and sang around him, and making sure that he ate.

He felt his eyes prickle with tears, but fiercely he pushed the feeling away. He finished off his bite and looked up at Bofur, giving him a small smile, and whatever Bofur saw in his expression made his dark eyes turn gentle.

"Thank you," Bilbo said simply, and Bofur smiled at him.

"No need to thank me, Mister Baggins. It's only proper! I dare say any Dwarf would be honored to have you at his table, now."

Bilbo blushed a bit and ducked his head, nudging the fried kidney around his plate. "I wouldn't go that far --"

"But I would, Master Baggins, as would any Dwarf present at yesterday's battle," came a deep voice behind him, and Bilbo started, nearly knocking aside his plate. He turned to find Thorin standing behind him, the tall Dwarf looking more rested and relaxed, a small smile on his lips. "I see you have avoided the healers rather well so far. I suspect, though, that they will attempt to corner you as soon as you are finished eating." On either side of him, Bofur and Bifur started to stand as if to bow, and Thorin waved a hand, letting the Dwarves around him relax.

Bilbo breathed in slowly to ease his rapidly beating heart. He glanced at the entrance to the massive tent and saw that, indeed, several healers were milling about, some of them watching his table, while the others were finding other Dwarves and dragging them off. Perhaps he was not the only person to avoid them, then. He sighed and looked up at Thorin, raising an eyebrow.

"I think I can outrun them," he said quietly, and Thorin's blue gaze warmed.

"You can try, Master Baggins, but Dwarves are the best sprinters of all the races," he responded, and Bilbo heard several noises of agreement from the surrounding Dwarves.

He sat up a bit and raised his eyebrows, a smile curling at the corner of his lips despite his unease with being surrounded by so many people. "And Hobbits are the lightest on their feet. None of you caught me following you off to war, now did you?" he said, and then he realized what he had said, which made him shrink back.

Instead of looking cross, Thorin instead threw his head back and laughed. "I even had someone tail you! But you are quite right, Master Baggins, nobody could follow you for long. Even Bifur here, who is a master tracker, could not keep up with you," Thorin said, blue eyes twinkling.

Stunned, Bilbo looked over at Bifur, who scowled but nodded glumly. "I knew where ye were when you were hidin', waitin', but then as soon as everyone left an' ye scurried off, I lost ye in the darkness. Quick on your feet, indeed!" But then Bifur laughed and raised his tankard, and the other Dwarves cheered for him, so Bilbo gave him a small smile. 

Then he gave Thorin a look. _You had me followed._

Thorin merely raised an eyebrow back at him. _Of course I did._

They might have stared at each other for a while longer had Bofur not jumped up with his tankard, grinning at them. "Let's hear a cheer for our Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins! Saved our King Thorin's life! For Bilbo Baggins!"

"BILBO BAGGINS!" shouted the room, and for a moment, Bilbo felt dizzy. He felt his entire face flush red, and he tried to sink down into his seat -- maybe sink down under the table -- but an arm on his elbow held him up, and Bifur handed his tankard to him.

"Drink up, lad," Bifur rumbled, and Bilbo sighed. The good cheer was getting to him, so he drank for a moment, just enough that Bifur let him go. He glanced down at his plate as his stomach rumbled, but upon looking closer at it, he felt his appetite die. 

_Mushrooms._

Thick golden mushrooms, perfectly sautéed with delicious-smelling spices, lay beneath the scattered rashers of bacon, and Bilbo had to close his eyes to control himself, so that he would not be ill at the table. They smelled so good -- and they were nowhere near black -- but Bilbo still felt sick at the sight of them.

"Bofur, if I might steal Master Baggins? I believe he and the healers have a great deal to discuss," came the low voice of Thorin behind him, and Bofur grinned at them both.

"'Course, Your Majesty! Off ye go, Mister Baggins, and come find us after! We'll want to hear more about how you got through all those Orc battles!" Bofur said, and Bilbo smiled shakily and stood, nodding.

"Of course," he said quietly, and without another glance at his plate, he followed Thorin out of the tent, the presence of the King enough to keep the Dwarves from clapping him on the shoulder or nudging him.

They meant well, he knew that. But he could not handle it, not now. If they were Hobbits, maybe... but not people he did not know, that he had not spent years learning to trust. He sighed deeply in relief as he escaped the heat of the tent, and when a healer began to fuss at him for eating so many fried foods, he did not mind. He allowed the healers to escort him to their tent, Thorin trailing them but staying silent.

He did not protest as the healers sat him down and began to peel off his bandages. The bruise on his cheek still hurt, but apparently it was beginning to fade, and the wound on his head was not becoming infected after all, thanks to the salves the healers were using. His chest had to be rubbed with a substance that had a rather strong smell.

"Mint ointment," the healer told him, and Bilbo could not help grinning. The healer shook his head and muttered, "Mad, that one is. But Óin has a gifted touch with healing, and I won't begrudge the name, if he wouldn't be so horrible about it --"

"Horrible? You're calling my ointments _horrible_ now, are you?" boomed a voice, which made Bilbo jump. Thorin, who was leaning against one of the pillars, rolled his eyes, and Bilbo turned to see a heavy-set Dwarf walking up, with thick silver hair and curling braids in his beard. The healer beside him stuttered, but the large Dwarf merely shooed him away and looked down his large nose at Bilbo, who was beginning to feel very nervous indeed.

"So this is the Hobbit," the Dwarf said, and Bilbo felt a vague shift of irritation.

"And you're a Dwarf, so let's be done with the obvious," he snapped without thinking, then covered his mouth.

The heavy Dwarf let out a bark of laughter, and beyond him, Thorin stared at Bilbo. "A feisty lad! I am Óin, head healer of this lot, at your service, Mister Baggins. You're a slippery one," he tsked, picking up the mint ointment. Then he gave Bilbo a look. "Off with your shirt, then."

Instantly, Bilbo was on his guard. He shot a glance at Thorin, then at the other healers, who were far enough away that they might not notice, but Thorin and Óin would both be able to see his scars perfectly well. Thorin had already seen them, but Bilbo was hesitant. Keeping his clothes on seemed to be the only way to protect himself.

Óin must have seen his look toward Thorin, because he turned and frowned at the King. "Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I've a patient to see, so we'd like some privacy. Tolin! Bring the curtain!"

Another Dwarf, in the same dark brown and green robes as the other healers, came and pulled a large sheet around, blocking the view of Bilbo and Óin from everybody else. Thorin seemed uncertain, but after a moment he looked at Bilbo.

"You are welcome to walk around the camp as you wish, Master Baggins. If you need anything, you need only ask, and we will provide. I will be in meetings for the afternoon, but my tent will be empty if you would like to rest." He nodded to Óin and swept out of the room, and for a moment Bilbo felt guilty for making him leave, but he was glad for the privacy.

Óin snorted and gave him another look, so Bilbo obediently pulled his shirt off, wincing slightly. The Dwarf clucked his tongue and reaching down touch the burned marks lightly, making Bilbo flinch. Then Óin dipped his fingers into the minty ointment and began to spread the paste across Bilbo's chest. Bilbo sighed as the cool substance touched his chest, breathing in the strong scent. When was the last time he had smelled mint?

"This wouldn't be so bad if you'd come to us first thing," Óin said, and Bilbo scowled a bit.

"Your healers are overbearing," he muttered, and Óin laughed again.

"Just trying to do their jobs! You're a right mess, all skin and bones and all these wounds, and if my ears don't deceive me, you've been in the mess hall with those gluttons, haven't you? I'll put a tea together for the ache you'll have in your stomach later, undoubtedly," Óin said, and despite his large presence, Bilbo could not help but relax. 

"I would appreciate that," he said after a moment, and Óin gave him a smile.

"Not a problem, lad. You're stubborn, but not as stubborn as some of my other patients! Can't get them to sit for longer than five minutes," the healer sighed, and as if on cue, a long litany of Dwarvish curse words burst out from the other side of the tent, followed by the sound of someone stomping away.

"See?" Óin said, his eyes twinkling, and Bilbo could not help but laugh. Óin seemed to know exactly how to deal with recalcitrant Dwarves, so a moody Hobbit was likely nothing to worry over. Bilbo felt better already, and he gave Óin a smile in gratitude.

"I really am grateful, Master Óin," he said quietly, and Óin gruffly nodded, his fingers drifting a bit lower. Bilbo started and looked down, realizing Óin was looking at his worst scar.

_AZOG_

"Funny thing, that," Óin muttered, and Bilbo tensed up despite himself, grabbing at Óin's hand, but the Dwarf did not pull away just yet. If he did not let go _now_ \-- "That Orc did the same thing to Thorin's father and grandfather, only on their heads... and in Khuzdul letters. But these are Westron letters." 

Azog had done the same before? Well, that explained Thorin's and Bofur's expressions on seeing the scar, when they first found him. What Thorin must have thought, to see Azog's name on a Hobbit... Now, if only Óin would stop touching his scar, maybe he would not _immediately_ run out the tent and refuse to see another Dwarf healer ever again.

But after a moment, Óin sighed and stepped back, pulling his hand away. "Sorry, lad, it's just... odd. The Defiler was a bastard, though, and I think we'll all sleep better for your actions. Now, I've got... well, I've been working on a few things over the years, and one of them is something that might help with that, make it better, heal the skin there. It's got almond oil and some aloe, a few other things... would you like to try it? Haven't tested it too much, but it does work, and I can put it together here."

Bilbo stared at him, his eyes slowly widening. In a second he forgave Óin for touching the hated scar, if it meant that his worst shame might go away, might lessen even a bit. "Really?" he whispered, scarcely believing, and Óin gave him a long look, almost pitying, but by this point, Bilbo did not care.

"I'll make some up myself and send it over to Thorin's tent later, alright? Now put your shirt back on, and let's check your head again."

For the rest of the time he was in the healers' tent, Bilbo was quiet, obedient, and careful not to complain. After more muttering and tsking, Óin pronounced him fine and told him the medicines would be in Thorin's tent in a few hours, so he should go and relax for a while. When Bilbo walked out of the healer's tent, he did so with hope in his heart and a small smile on his face.

~

Days passed, and slowly, surely, Bilbo began to heal. While Thorin continued his meetings with commanders from afar, Bilbo rested and ate, putting on more weight and losing a bit of the skeletal look that had lingered about him for years. He spent most of his time asleep, recovering from the shock, but some days he would linger in the healers' tent, talking to Óin, and once or twice a day, he would meet Bofur and Bifur, who would attempt to stuff him full of delicious fatty foods until the healers found out and scolded them. He slept more easily each night, but sometimes he woke with a cry, and other times he would stir and be eased back to sleep by soft humming.

Every day, Thorin watched, taking care of the Hobbit from afar. He did not press Bilbo, and truthfully he was much too busy to spend every moment worrying about him, but he made sure that his cousins and friends kept an eye on the Hobbit, so that he did not slip away. His time in meetings was fruitful, and though he was exhausted when he crept into bed, silently so that he did not wake his guest, he did not mind waking when he heard soft whimpers in the middle of the night.

A soft song, a gentle hand -- Thorin treated Bilbo just as he had his nephews once upon a time, when they were small and prone to night terrors. Bilbo's tiny figure, which gained weight and strength every day, was nothing like a Dwarf child's (Thorin had been stunned one day to realize that Bilbo was not that much shorter than him) but still Thorin felt concern for the Hobbit who had saved his life.

So he made sure Bilbo was never wanting. In between meetings, he looked in on the Hobbit himself, and he spoke with Bofur and Bifur, who were happy to talk to him about Bilbo's eating habits and how he was warming to them. He spoke with Óin every day about the ointments, teas, and medicines he was giving Bilbo, and when he had moments alone, he plotted.

He had promised to send Bilbo home, after all. He would keep that promise, and every other one he had made.

The Dwarves who had come to his aid from afar were already leaving. They would take with them news of Thorin's victory, and hopefully soon, more Dwarves would come to rebuild Khazad-dûm into the mighty empire it had once been. There was still the question of who would lead any colonies that formed here, but many Dwarves had proven their valor and leadership in the war, and so Thorin had a few ideas of whom to entrust with rebuilding Khazad-dûm. He would return to Erebor in time; for now, there was still much to do, soldiers to command and the dead to bury, a Hobbit to send home, and a Wizard to find.

There had been no sign of Gandalf since he had disappeared nearly a week ago, and no more quakes or roars from Durin's Bane. Thorin wanted to go after Gandalf, but Balin and Dwalin held him back, insisting that he was needed here. So Thorin waited through meetings and plans, decrees and ceremonies, while he worried that the Wizard had fallen too far for mortals to reach.

~

For six days they fought, darkness to light, fire to fire, evil to good. Blow after blow, deep into the caves of Moria where no light had ever touched, and every moment was a test of Gandalf's courage and patience. His strength held true, though, and yet it seemed that every step he took was another step toward his doom. He could feel his time nearing, with each faltering breath, with each battle cry, and he silently pleaded to those who had first breathed life into him to give him just a moment longer, so that he could defeat the corrupted spirit and protect the land he held so dear to his heart --

And they granted him those moments, granted him the power he needed. Through fire and ice, from darkness to light they fought -- from deep within the caves of Moria to the highest peak of the Misty Mountains, they chased each other, each desperate to win, to achieve victory.

Yet Gandalf felt a strangeness in his heart, as if he had walked these steps before, but of course he had not -- perhaps it was that he had not walked them yet. Such thoughts did not linger for long, not when Durin's Bane roared and cursed him, called out dark horrors that made Gandalf cringe -- but was this not his choice, his duty? Only four others in the world like him, and none close enough to assist -- even Saruman who had pronounced his interest in the Dwarves' march foolish would have come, but Gandalf had no time to send for help.

This battle was his own to fight, the corrupted spirit of his kin for him to defeat -- to send back to the farthest realms where it might be cleansed, sealed away, or given to death for an eternal rest.

So he fought, and at last, as the very last bit of power in him burst out in a final blow, he won. The Balrog fell from the cliffside and landed on the stone peaks below, breaking its hold on life, and the most evil of auras -- the aura of terror which had haunted Moria for centuries -- faded away. Defeated was the Balrog, and Gandalf had his victory.

Yet Gandalf fell as well, to the snow which blew cold against his body. Staring up into the white, he felt a softness around him, a gentle touch to his cheek, and he smiled, the deep pains and wounds in his frail body fading away. His Lady may have mercy on his poor old soul yet, and Gandalf -- _Olórin_ , she whispered, smiling -- knew that all he had done was enough. 

Carefully, softly, gently, he was carried away into the bright unknown, and Gandalf the Grey knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a long time mostly because of RL and work, but also because it's very detail-heavy, for which I hope you'll forgive me. So maybe the long chapter makes up for the long wait?


	14. What we hold close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Meanings**  
>  _thos-karkû_ \-- whore  
>  Manar-dûm -- Hall of Markets  
> Torvîd-dûm -- Hall of Crafts  
> Buknad-dûm -- Hall of Shops

When he opens his eyes again, he is kneeling on his little cushion by Azog's throne. A sharp tug on his hair lets him know that his master is not at all pleased by his dozing off. He had dreamed of something nice, too -- of a tall Dwarf with blue eyes and a soft bed of clean blankets. 

He sits up straight and puts on a blank expression, but the Orc commanders who must have been groveling for some transgression or another are smirking and snickering, muttering foul things about him to each other. The instant one of them says _thos-karkû,_ Azog barks a command at them, and they all scuttle off to prepare for something, Bilbo had missed it -- oh, they are having a hunt tomorrow.

Bilbo looks forward to it, then. Two, three, maybe even four whole days of peace without Azog.

Until then, he has to deal with his master's temper. As soon as the commanders are gone, Azog is out of the stone chair, dragging Bilbo by his hair out of the room. Bilbo whimpers and grabs onto his thick wrists, but Azog continues to stalk through the halls, even though the Orcs around them laugh and make nasty comments.

They reach their room, and Azog pushes Bilbo inside first, making him trip over his chain, but Azog catches him before he can hit the floor.

" _You embarrass me,_ " his master mutters, and Bilbo shudders, looking away and pulling out of Azog's grip.

"I didn't mean to doze off," he begins, but Azog has no patience for him, merely picks him up and carries him over to the bed, drops him on the torn furs and sneers down at him.

" _In front of my commanders, you fall asleep. You will be punished,_ " Azog growls, and despite pretending for years that he cannot understand, Bilbo's eyes widen at the threat in that voice. He backs away, but Azog kneels down and grabs his chain, yanking him forward.

" _I will make you beg, my pain-bearer,_ " Azog murmurs, and it does not take much before Bilbo begins to scream --

~

"NOOO!" he shrieked, writhing, and he felt hands on his shoulders and heard a deep voice, and it only heightened his terror. He beat against his tormentor's chest, trying to dig his fingernails in, trying to injure him enough to get away, but then thick arms pulled him up and into a warm embrace -- against a chest smaller than he was used to, not so wide, and covered in cloth.

 _Cloth?_ His master was wearing... a shirt?

Bilbo opened his eyes and looked up, and instead of Azog's fierce grin, he found Thorin Oakenshield staring at him with wide eyes. The visage shocked him, and he froze in the act of hitting his captor, long enough for Thorin to grab his wrists and hold him still -- but his touch was gentle, light, and Bilbo realized he could pull away. Oddly enough, this calmed Bilbo, to the point that Thorin could lower his arms and help him sit up, and Bilbo did nothing to fight him.

When Thorin asked, "Are you alright?" in a quiet voice, Bilbo was distressed to the point that he burst into tears. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed, hating himself for being so affected by his nightmares, for hitting Thorin, even for waking him. He had woken with nightmares during other nights in this tent, but never with a scream, never to the point of disturbing his tent-mate.

Thorin said nothing, but a hand came to rest on Bilbo's shoulder, and though he first tensed, he appreciated the warmth, even leaning into the hand a bit. The chance for comfort from a real person was too much for him to deny himself, even though it shamed him and made him very nervous. He trusted that Thorin would not hurt him, though.

"'m sorry," he whispered, and the hand squeezed his shoulder. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about it, dreaming about him. I didn't mean to wake you," he said, voice muffled by his hands, and he felt those broad fingers spread over his thin skin like a blanket. Then the hand retreated, and Bilbo felt impossibly alone for a moment that stretched like eternity.

Then the hand returned with its pair to Bilbo's wrists, and his breath hitched. Slowly, gently, his hands were pulled away from his face. Bilbo looked up in confusion, blinking through his bleary gaze to see Thorin kneeling in front of him. Those impossibly blue eyes were somewhat dark, but Bilbo could sense nothing but a soft compassion from Thorin, who gave him a small smile.

Slowly, carefully, to the point that Bilbo wondered if Thorin was alright, Thorin pulled him forward, and when Bilbo's head hit the blue silk of the Dwarf's shirt, he realized that Thorin was being gentle for _him_ , as if the smallest spook would scare him off. He realized how tense he was and how warm Thorin felt, and he felt his tears return, but he swallowed against the hot heat, against the burn in his eyes, not wanting to ruin Thorin's shirt.

Then Thorin's arm touched his back, and he felt fingers curl into his hair, which reminded him for an awful moment of Azog -- but no, there were no claws scraping over his scalp, just blunt fingertips. Thorin was not Azog, would never be Azog, would never even _attempt_ to be Azog, and Bilbo felt his breath seize in his chest, knowing that he would never have to wake up in fear of Azog's temper ever again.

"He is gone, Bilbo," Thorin said quietly, and Bilbo could hear the rumble of his deep voice against his ear. He turned his face into Thorin's shirt, shoulders shaking, and said nothing in reply, the tears falling from his eyes as something in him broke. He could not hold them back anymore.

Thorin said nothing else, merely held Bilbo while he sobbed, that gentle hand sometimes carding through his hair, sometimes rubbing Bilbo's back. He did not hug Thorin back -- he did not dare -- but Bilbo leaned into him all the same, taking the comfort as it was given. They sat there for a long time, until Bilbo's tears slowed and all he could feel was a wary emptiness, sore and muted. He wondered if he had been in denial this past week. He wondered when it would stop feeling like a dream.

"I want to go home," Bilbo whispered, and then let out a pitiful noise when he realized what he had said. There was no home for him. He had nowhere to go.

The thought made his eyes sting again, but he did not have the energy to cry anymore. Thorin did not respond, and Bilbo was grateful, knowing that hearing Thorin affirm his thoughts would make it worse. Instead he rested, lulled by Thorin's warmth. His eyes kept drifting closed, but he forced them open again and again, not wanting to fall asleep on the Dwarf King who had shown him such kindness. A vaguely familiar tune caught his attention, and he lifted his head a bit, blinking sleepily.

"What is that you keep humming?" he asked softly, and Thorin's hand paused in rubbing his back.

"Something I used to sing for my nephews," Thorin said quietly, and Bilbo blinked, surprised to find out that Thorin had nephews. Did he have no sons? "I put it together when they could not sleep... Is it bothersome?"

Bilbo shook his head slightly, feeling just tired enough that he did not stop his mouth when it moved next. "Would you sing it? Not just hum..."

There was silence for a moment, and Bilbo shifted a bit, wondering if he had pressed too far, before Thorin's deep voice began to rumble in his chest again, the soft vibrations soothing to Bilbo's ear. A small smile found its way to his lips, and Bilbo's eyes drifted closed again as he listened, remembering a time when his father would carry him around the house and sing to him when he was too excited to fall asleep. He imagined Thorin doing the same to a young Dwarf, and the thought made him oddly happy.

"Night is nigh, and you should sleep.  
My dear boy, no thoughts should creep  
Through your head, where dreams delight,  
So rest now, 'fore morning seeps  
Into the night.  
Lay down your weary head, child.  
Stone sings and trees rustle wildly  
Ere dawn comes, and you rise.  
So rest now, with dreams beguiled.  
Now close your eyes." 

Thorin sang softly, and when he looked down again, the last note fading from his throat, Bilbo had fallen asleep, a faint smile on his face and tear tracks on his cheeks. Thorin felt an odd softness in his chest at the sight, making him miss his nephews briefly. He was careful in wiping away Bilbo's tears and tucking him beneath the furs again, and though he was tired, he did not fall asleep easily when he returned to his own bed. He lay there for quite some time, his thoughts returning again and again to the scream that had woken him, though he tried to think of anything but Bilbo crying for help.

~

The next morning, Bilbo woke just as Thorin was leaving, and he tripped as soon as he met Thorin's blue eyes, remembering vividly how warm Thorin had been last night and the depth of his voice as he had sung to Bilbo. He muttered _good morning_ and tried not to think about how red his face was, but miraculously, Thorin only greeted him in return and left for the day, much to Bilbo's relief.

He poured himself some water and leaned against the table, pressing the glass to his warm face and letting himself think. More than a week after he had been liberated from Azog, nine days after Azog had fallen to his sword, Bilbo still could not believe how much his life had changed.

He was allowed to eat as much as he wanted. He had a warm, soft bed in an area all of his own, and he was encouraged to sleep often. He was not forced to do anything against his will. He was not a pet anymore. He was not a slave anymore.

He was gaining weight. The food the Dwarves gave him was delicious, and even though he had given himself several stomach aches from eating too much, he still could not resist that extra helping of stew or that last potato. He had wondered where the Dwarves got all this food, and Bofur had explained that during the war, they regularly sent out parties to trade with cities of Men for supplies, easily paid for by the gold found in the Orcs' and goblins' treasure hoards. So Bilbo paid it little mind and enjoyed what they gave him, though he mostly avoided the larger tents and busiest meal times. There was only so much Dwarf singing he could take in a day.

He was not sneered at everywhere he went. After the first day he had woken, the Dwarves no longer always called out to him or cheered when he entered the room. Some of the Dwarves still smiled at him and tried to chat with him whenever he ventured near enough for their notice, but Bilbo noticed that not all the Dwarves cared or worried about him. They merely acknowledged him and continued with whatever job they had, and Bilbo was fine with that. He was treated with respect, not ignored or scorned like the Orcs had. That moment he tried not to think about, but which everybody else tried to talk about, had made him something of a hero -- which completely bewildered him. All of the Dwarves around him were warriors and powerful in their own right. Each one of them had protected or saved someone before. Yet he was special, different -- because he had killed the leader of the Orcs and protected the leader of the Dwarves. So strange. But he did not resist it too much -- it was nice not to be glared at.

He was not molested. Not a single Dwarf attempted to hurt him, ridicule him, degrade him, or force him to do anything he did not want to do (aside from the healers, but that was part of their job). No one gave him nasty looks or threatened to hurt him. No one spit at him, or muttered _thos-karkû_ \-- and wasn't that a culture shock, to hear Westron and occasionally Khuzdul everywhere, instead of Orc speech? Azog had forbidden his clan to speak in anything but their own rudimentary language, which was how Bilbo had learned so much of it.

He was engaging in _normal interactions_ with relatively normal people. The cousins Bofur and Bifur would find him and drag him off to supper or lunch or whatever meal they thought he was missing, and they would spend the entire meal telling him stories about Erebor or regaling him with songs that made Bilbo want to cry, they were so bawdy. He suspected they had been put up to it by Thorin, as he saw Bofur go into Thorin's tent one morning, but he did not mind that much. He thought Bofur and Bifur were being very kind, as was Óin, who was quite content to prattle on to Bilbo about herbs and salves when he was not busy taking care of his patients.

Most surprising of all, he was _sleeping_. Sleep, for the past seven years, had been an act of mercy by his body to give him some reprieve from Azog. He had slept only because of exhaustion and survival. His mind was always strained from it, but Bilbo's body had been conditioned over the years to handle the pitiful amount of sleep and the high amount of stress he experienced. But now -- now sleep was a gift, where he spent long hours simply snoozing, napping away the day, relaxing into the soft warmth of the bed Thorin had put together for him.

Out of consideration for his privacy, Thorin had set up a screen in the tent to give Bilbo some semblance of a room for himself, which had surprised him, but he was thankful for it. He could change and sleep in relative peace, the thick walls of the tent enough to keep out most of the noises during the day, and Thorin never disturbed him if he could help it.

He thought about Thorin often. The Dwarf King confused and entranced him. Always watching, always worrying -- Bilbo could tell when someone's attention was on him, after years of training his senses to watch out for Azog's shifts in moods -- and yet Thorin never pushed him, never treated him as anything more than a respectable guest. The King was obviously keeping a close eye on him, but Thorin never attempted to control him.

It was _different_ , and it made him all the more aware of how strange his thoughts had been, to compare Thorin to Azog. They were nothing alike. Thorin was not looking to push himself into Bilbo's life -- and it gave Bilbo courage. He had worried, in the back of his mind, that he was trying to find a new 'master,' a new person to cling to, but Thorin had removed himself from that position, keeping his distance and treating Bilbo politely.

It was nice, not to have someone trying to consume him.

In many ways it felt like a dream, still. Yet when he slept, he usually did not dream of Azog's halls, but of his family and the Shire, normal dreams for him. Some nights he woke from strange dreams that he could not remember, but he did not mind these, as he did not think they were bad, just strange.

He thought about his former life often, though. Every moment that he was not with a Dwarf, he thought about Azog, about those last moments of his life. Azog haunted him -- and Bilbo sometimes worried that his master's ghost would come after him and drive him to insanity. 

Hence the nightmares, but Bilbo wondered if maybe, just maybe, he would be able to deal with them better now, after hearing Thorin sing a lullabye for him. The thought made his face turn pink again in embarrassment, and he debated going right back to bed for a moment. His stomach growled then, deciding for him, and he sighed and looked around for the sweater Thorin had given him to replace the one lost in the battle, hoping that there was bacon this morning.

~

Watching Bilbo the Hobbit shyly pass a bowl of potatoes to Bifur during breakfast, Bofur was gladder than ever for his inherent charm. It had not been easy, gaining enough of Bilbo's trust to the point that he would seek them out during meals, but today Bilbo had walked right to their table without any waving or calling. It was good to see him opening up to them.

Even as a lad, Bofur had been considered charming. All of the progeny of the line of Úr were charismatic and genial to the point that every single adult, save one, was married, and their large family was full of children and happiness. Bofur was the only Dwarf in his family, other than the children, who did not have a spouse. 

He was just fine with that, too; he made a good living as a soldier and enjoyed his work protecting the city. Despite having every bit as much charm as his brother and cousins, he had never desired getting married and settling down. In a family that prided itself on having lots of children each generation, he was considered something of the black sheep, though they all loved him despite his choices.

It could be stifling, though, which was why he had signed up for the war effort when Thorin's decree had been posted. A chance for adventure and battle, not to mention a handsome reward when he returned? No way would Bofur not take that advantage. He had been surprised, though, when his cousin Bifur had joined him, despite having a bondmate.

 _What about Boro?_ he had asked one night after a particularly awful fight in the beginning, his gaze fixed on Bifur's forehead, which had nearly missed gaining an axe for a decoration.

 _He found a whole new part of his caves to dig through before we left, told me he'd give me lots of pretty beryls when I got back,_ Bifur said, rubbing at his forehead, still a bit bloody beneath the bandages.

 _But he's your bonded. The war's not worth losing him,_ Bofur said, confused.

 _You need someone to look after you, too, Bofur,_ Bifur grinned, and Bofur remembered uncomfortably that the axe had been meant for him, before Bifur had shoved him out of the way.

He thought back to that moment often, and each time it left a happy ache in his chest. Happiness, because of the proof of his family's love for him, and an ache that sometimes left him breathless, that he had drawn one of his family members into a war he had chosen for himself. Bifur had nearly died that day, and so Bofur had taken it upon himself to protect him as hard as he could, even though Bifur was older and technically a better fighter.

But Bofur loved him, and he would do right by Boro and send Bifur home to him, whole and healthy.

It was a considerable relief when, the morning after the final battle with Azog's clan, he woke up in one piece, and he turned over to find Bifur snoring away, looking whole and healthy as he had wanted. Both of them had made it through the war, and he would return to Erebor a richer man, in both reward and experience. Best of all, Bifur would go home to his bonded and be rewarded in love and gems, and Bofur would smile and nod and feel a little sad that he had no one to welcome him home, save his family.

It seemed, though, that he at least would not be returning immediately. Thorin, who had been the commander of Bofur's regiment back in the day, had pulled him aside and asked a personal request, which Bofur was determined to fulfill:

_Take care of the Hobbit. Keep him safe, help him eat, take him to the healers, watch over him. Escort him home._

The Hobbit in question was an interesting fellow. Painfully shy, terrified of most of the Dwarves, skinny as a rail, and yet he had just enough of a spark left in him after years of being a slave for Bofur to like him. Bifur, who had noticed his efforts and joined him quickly enough, had thought the Hobbit a little simple, but Bofur believed otherwise. He likened Bilbo's behavior to the Dwarves to his own reactions to his family, after being gone a long time and returning home to every single relative swarming his small house and offering him every foodstuff under the mountain. He could see how overwhelming it might be to someone used to solitude. Bilbo was just shy, and Bofur was glad to help him.

It amused him, though, to see the little Hobbit hiding from the Dwarves, who always cheered for him when he entered the food tent -- but then, most of the Dwarves in the army liked to cheer for _everybody_ who came into the tent. His fellow soldiers were nice folk, rowdy but good at heart, and Bofur had wondered once if Bilbo realized that there were other 'heroes' in the war that were being cheered. But he never said anything about it, considering the poor Hobbit's terribly low self-esteem.

It might help Bilbo, to be celebrated for something other than surviving an Orc master.

Sometimes he thought about the painful scar he had seen on Bilbo's stomach, that first time that Thorin brought him out of a bedroom in the back of Moria's halls. He never mentioned it, never even told Bifur about it, only ignored the thought and offered Bilbo another story, since the Hobbit seemed to like them. As far as missions went, this one was particularly easy, and it was nice to make someone happy. Most of his nieces and nephews had outgrown his stories by now, after all.

He grinned when he saw Bifur trying to sneak some potatoes onto Bilbo's plate, which already had enough from his own efforts to fill it without the Hobbit noticing. At least his cousin agreed with him that the Hobbit was too skinny. Between the two of them constantly foisting food onto Bilbo's plate (save the mushrooms, which Bofur had noticed that Bilbo would not touch, no matter how hungry he was), it would take no time at all to fatten Bilbo up. He had to hide his smile behind his ale when Bilbo noticed Bifur's movement and became flustered.

"Oh, no, Mister Bifur, I cannot possible eat all of those, please --"

"Ye need more starch, Mister Baggins! Look at that belly, nothing there!" Bifur said, and Bofur sat up a bit and shot his cousin a look when he noticed Bifur's hand move as if to poke the Hobbit. Bifur gave him a confused look over Bilbo's head but stopped, and Bofur sighed to himself. He loved his cousin, but he was a very friendly fellow, and it was hard to keep him from bothering the Hobbit too much.

Bilbo, thankfully, had not noticed. "I have quite enough, thank you! If I eat any more of those, Healer Óin will fuss at me again," he said, his small voice becoming a bit firmer, and with a sigh, Bifur subsided.

"Jus' trying to help, Mister Baggins," Bifur said, and Bilbo relented after a moment, giving him a small smile.

"I'm grateful, Mister Bifur," the Hobbit said, making Bofur smile again.

Then their attention was caught by a cheer, and they all looked over to see Thorin entering the tent with Balin and Dwalin. The King waved a hand distractedly and went to eat, never one to stand on ceremony during meal times, and Bofur returned his attention to his plate. He raised an eyebrow when he saw that Bilbo's cheeks were rather pink, but he said nothing, refusing to speculate on how affected the young Hobbit was by their King.

The three of them sat in contented silence for a few minutes, as Bofur and Bifur returned their attentions to their own meals, and Bilbo picked at his plate. After a time, Bofur noticed how lost the Hobbit's expression looked, and he finished off his bite and nudged Bilbo's plate closer to him.

"Have some more of the chicken stew, Mister Baggins. Wouldn't want Óin to come fuss at us, too," he said, giving Bilbo a wink, which made the Hobbit smile at him, just enough that Bofur could tell it was real.

For a moment, anyway, as the expression faded quickly, but Bilbo dutifully took a bite of the stew. "Mister Bofur," he said quietly, hesitantly, and Bofur raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

Bilbo seemed to blush, but he continued anyway, his voice getting a little braver. "What... um, well, what is Erebor like? I know it's underground, but I can't imagine..."

Ahh. That was an easy enough question, and one Bofur was pleased to answer. "Well, Erebor is... hm, you know how the halls of Moria were? Bigger than that, and it goes all through the mountains and deep into the earth, so deep you can see the earth's fire-blood some places. Different caves are kind of like different towns, different neighborhoods, where people live anyway. Some folk who do really well have their homes built into the rock high in the caves, while the poorer folk live closer to the bottom of the halls. But there are roads and streets connecting everybody, and it's not like we've got anyone who's _really_ poor, you know?" he said, smiling when he saw how interested Bilbo looked.

"Really?" the Hobbit asked.

"Aye," Bofur said, and Bifur nodded along with him. "Erebor's not like cities of Men. We don't have homeless, don't have too much violence or anybody who starves. Somewhere in the city, there's always a job, yeah? So even if you haven't got much money, you can still go to the mines or the forges or the shops and work for a while, and no one's really badly off."

"Don't forget the markets," Bifur said, drinking from his tankard. Bilbo's eyes widened, so Bofur agreeably continued.

"The markets, aye! Erebor's got three massive halls dedicated completely to selling an' buying. You can get to 'em from the main hall, which can connect to jus' about anywhere in the city. Manar-dûm, that's the first market, has your food and household goods --"

"We get our vegetables and grains from the farmers of Dale, an' most of our meat, too," Bifur interjected.

"And there's a lot of Dwarves that go foragin', make their own spices and ales, so that's a good place to visit," Bofur said, giving Bilbo a grin. "Then the second hall, Torvîd-dûm, that's got all your craftwork. A lot of people sell wares from Dale, but most Men don't come into the city, so most of the stall workers go to Dale's markets a few times a week to trade. Anyone who makes anything sells their stuff there, 'cept the furniture an' some of the finer smithers."

"Do Dwarves really do that much craftwork?" Bilbo asked, his meal forgotten by now, so Bofur nudged his plate again and waited till Bilbo had taken another bite before he answered.

"Tons of it, yeah. Dwarves are masters of metalcraft and smithing, and we've got an excellent demand for weapons and jewelry of Dwarvish make. That's what Torvîd-dûm's mainly for, anyway. All the smithers and crafters, they put out their wares, and the traders come buy from them, then go travelin' to sell them. The crafters get a percentage of the total profit afterwards, so everyone's happy at the end of the day," Bofur said, and Bifur shot him a grin.

"Don' forget the last one, Bofur. Can't leave Mister Baggins wondering. Here, listen to me tell it, I've spent a lot of time there sellin'," Bifur said, and Bilbo turned his gaze around to the other Dwarf curiously, making Bofur roll his eyes.

"The last market is the smallest, but it's got the best stuff, in my opinion," Bifur said grandly, holding Bilbo's attention easily. "It's called Buknad-dûm, and everyone there sells something really special. Furniture, or exotic things, right, like herbs from the west or yellow diamonds from the Blue Mountains. Stuff that people've put a lot of effort to make or get. The really good weapons, the kind you gotta work hard for, and the _good_ engagement broaches and rings. That's what my husband does," Bifur said proudly, and Bofur resisted the urge to roll his eyes again.

Bilbo's eyes were very wide. "Your husband?" he asked, and Bofur frowned a bit, wondering if he had misheard Bilbo's hesitance.

"Yep, my Boro! He mines for one year, crafts the next, then goes back to mining," Bifur said, beaming. "Has a small cave that's been in the family for years, produces great green and blue beryls. Makes the best emeralds, aye, and very pretty river-colored gems. Verra' popular with the ladies! He works with his brother, too, and they learned from their da, who made the broach that King Thráin gave to Thorin's mother!" Bifur looked proud about this, and Bofur felt rather glad that Bifur would get to see Boro soon.

Bilbo looked enthralled, but also a little disturbed, so Bofur cut in with an easy smile. "When he's at home, Bifur sells the broaches while Boro's craftin', sometimes. Buknad-dûm's a good place to go when you're ready to settle down. You can also hire cavers, yeah, the ones that can make you a real nice home for a new family."

"Home," Bilbo echoed softly, his gaze turning down to his plate, and Bofur raised an eyebrow, watching him curiously. Then Bilbo lifted his head and looked at Bofur, his expression strangely solemn.

"What's your home like?" he asked, and Bofur blinked, scratching at his beard.

"Mine? Well, it's nothing special, just a little house a few miles down from the palace. Gotta live close to work, yeah? It has a nice view of one of the bigger suburbs, so I like it. There's a study where I keep my books and a couch in case a friend comes to visit, and my own little kitchen, since I've only got me, so it's not too big," he said, watching Bilbo and wondering at his thoughts.

Bilbo offered him a vague smile. "Do you miss it?"

Bofur considered Bilbo's expression for a moment, but he nodded genially. "Yeah, I do. 's nice to get away, but I like going home, at the end of it all. Even if my family's there, though I gotta love 'em." Bilbo said nothing, his smile fading again, and Bofur leaned over a bit. "Okay there, Mister Baggins?"

Bilbo looked up again and gave Bofur another smile, though it seemed very sad, enough that Bofur immediately wanted to smack himself, for talking about his home to a Hobbit that probably did not have one anymore.

"I'm alright, Mister Bofur," Bilbo said quietly, and Bofur's smile faded a bit, wondering if he had crossed a line. Then Bilbo shook his head, as if reading Bofur's expression, and the Hobbit's smile became a little more real. "Thank you for telling me about Erebor. It sounds lovely," he said quietly, and Bofur felt a little better for it. 

"I hope you get to see it someday," he offered, and the Hobbit looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Maybe I will," Bilbo said, and returned to his plate, only to realize that Bifur had snuck two thick slices of ham between his potatoes and his chicken stew. Bofur caught the twinkle in his cousin's eye and laughed, pleased at Bilbo's dismayed expression, and he chose to spend the rest of the meal with Bifur urging Bilbo to eat every last bite.

After they were finished, Bifur walking with Bilbo out the entrance, Thorin caught his attention with a subtle wave, and Bofur nodded briefly before following his cousin and charge. Seemed that Thorin wanted to speak to him later, probably about the Hobbit. For now he would make sure Bilbo got to Óin's tent, then spend the rest of his day helping the others in his regiment pack, since they would be leaving the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to have a lot more in it, but it got so long that I had to slice it into two, so the next chapter should be out within the next two days! <3
> 
> Thorin's song is my own silly little poem, and I did make up a tune for it, but my voice is hilariously soprano and would do no justice to Thorin's deep and majestic tones. Tolkien's Dwarf songs are few and far between, and ironically most of them have to do with Erebor and Smaug... (I was very sad when I realized that PB's reality has no Misty Mountains song.) 
> 
> (also could someone please draw Thorin singing to little Fili and Kili, or better yet, sleepy Bilbo, omg <3)


	15. Into the bright unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Meanings**  
>  _khuzdibâh_ \-- Dwarf-friend

As Bilbo walked away from the food tent, he glanced back and caught Thorin's blue gaze on him, which made him flush again, and he hurried after Bifur. It seemed he would be unable to avoid Thorin after all, even after the first incredibly awkward moments of this morning. 

He was grateful, on one hand... but on the other, he was so embarrassed! To be sung to like a fauntling -- and then fall asleep on someone like that, at his age! And on the Dwarf King himself!

Even though it had made him happy... but hopefully he would not have to meet Thorin face to face anytime soon. He did not think he could bear it.

~

It was a busy day for a healer, and as the Head Healer, Óin was busiest of them all, not that it slowed his endless stream of patients. He could feel his age beginning to catch up with him. These past few years, his hearing had begun to get worse, and his braids were already turning gray. It was only a matter of time before he finished this life, but he knew he had a good while left. Best to use it to do good, which was the main reason he had joined this war effort in the first place, even though it had been tough, these past several years.

Constantly taking care of the injured. Sending out teams of his youngest healers to find more herbs deep in the valleys, or even further past the Misty Mountains. Sending valiant Dwarves back home to manage their injuries, or worse, laying black cloths over the dead bodies of Dwarves who had pushed themselves just hard enough. Óin had been a healer for over a hundred years, and he knew how to deal with the injured, how to handle the death.

It was nice, though, that he was able to save some people in the process. Most, actually, considering how many Dwarves had been injured in this war, and how few had died. It was hard at the same time, to see the victims of the war, not just their Dwarves, but also the Hobbits, and especially one Hobbit in particular.

Just before he had planned on looking in on the unconscious patients in the next tent, Óin was visited by the particular Hobbit who had managed to sneak into the war to Thorin's side. Immediately he saw that Bilbo's stomach was just slightly distended beneath his thick sweater, and he muttered to himself, knowing that Bofur and Bifur were to blame. He shot the Hobbit a look and jerked his head toward an empty bed behind the usual curtain, and Bilbo gave him a sheepish smile but obediently trotted over, sitting down and clasping his hands together.

 _Let's make him wait a bit,_ Óin thought to himself, going over to his racks of herbs and putting together the usual medicine to soothe the Hobbit's stomach. He was glad, though, because Bilbo had put on a good bit of weight for his size since they had rescued the Hobbits. Óin hoped that the other Hobbits who had left a week ago were doing just as well, considering they had left immediately, but he knew that the outpost near the West-gate would have fed them well for their journey home.

After putting the ointment into a small tin for Bilbo, he walked over to the Hobbit and scowled down at him, though it was mostly for show. Bilbo looked up at him with an innocent expression, knowing this, and Óin sighed and shook his head, earning a smile for his efforts.

"Those two are a bad influence on you," he muttered, and Bilbo actually giggled a bit.

"They're nice, though," the Hobbit said, and Óin shook his head.

"Much too charming for a little thing like you," he said, and crossed his arms. "Shirt off!"

Bilbo rolled his eyes but obeyed, and Óin looked over his body with a critical eye. The skin on his torso was no longer greatly enflamed, and the two wounds on his head were healing very neatly. The bruise on his cheek had nearly faded, and Óin was pleased to see that after several days of use of the salve he had made, the scar tissue on the Hobbit's stomach was beginning to turn soft at the edges. Óin figured that as long as Bilbo kept with the proper treatments, he would be fine by the time he returned to Bree, and though it might take years, that scar would be greatly reduced.

Óin prided himself on his ingenuity for a moment, then began to apply the day's treatments, unwrapping bandages, spreading salves, and putting on new bandages as was required. Bilbo stayed still for him, which pleased Óin, considering how skittish the Hobbit had been in the beginning. As he worked, he and Bilbo chatted about the day, as they were wont to do; the Hobbit had taken a liking to him and seemed more comfortable with him than with other Dwarves, barring Bofur and Bifur, and perhaps Thorin himself.

"There you go, lad," Óin said, and Bilbo nodded and pulled back on his sweater. Óin went to gather the tins and a small scroll, setting them down on the bed beside Bilbo. "Now, I've made up a good bit of medicine for you, and I've written down the recipes and instructions for you. I expect you'll be using them to the letter, yes?" he said ominously, glowering down at Bilbo, who looked rather confused for a moment.

"Of course, Healer Óin, but what you do --" Bilbo started, but he was interrupted by a loud racket as someone stomped into the tent.

"Óin! Where are you? You've got to look at my foot again, King Thorin's asked my regiment to join the first group back home and I want a clean bill of health!" came a voice that made Óin sigh and Bilbo blink in confusion. Around the curtain walked a Dwarf with red hair that was neatly braided into three thick braids with long silver clasps, his thick mustache quivering.

Óin frowned at the newcomer and shook his head. "Nori, I told you two days ago your foot is fine. There's nothing keeping you from marching off to your brothers like the worried nag you are, now shoo! Out of my tent!" he barked, but Nori had a shifty look on his face.

"I cannae go home with an aching foot! It hurt this morning, it did, and if Dori finds any hint of a single injury, you know I'll never hear the end of it! And if my Ori finds out, well, poor boy, he won't --"

Óin held up a hand before Nori could go into a long ramble about his brothers. "I've looked at it every day for two weeks, and it is _fine_ , Nori, really. Now off with you! You're bothering my patients!" he said sharply, gesturing to Bilbo, who looked more fascinated than bothered.

Nori shot the Hobbit a look but dismissed him after only a glance, frowning at Óin. "You're nearly done with him, aren't you? Come now, Óin, just take a look for me."

Óin crossed his arms and stood tall over Nori, scowling down at him. "I have my rounds to make after I finish with Mister Baggins here, so you'll have to wait, Nori. Come back in the morning, and _only_ if it _really_ hurts. Now off with you."

Nori opened his mouth to argue again, but he seemed mollified by the chance to visit tomorrow. It did not take much more to make him leave, and Óin sighed in relief as Nori disappeared out the tent entrance. He walked back over to Bilbo and shook his head.

"Sorry about that, lad. You're free to go now, and be sure to drink that tea for your stomach later. Eat a _light_ supper, you hear me?" he said, shaking his head and knowing that Bofur and Bifur would once again attempt to stuff Bilbo full.

Bilbo hopped off the bed and gathered up his tins, looking after Nori curiously. "You Dwarves sure have a lot of siblings among you," he said thoughtfully, and Óin snorted.

"Aye, we've been a prosperous people, in more ways than one. Nori has it bad, being the middle child with a protective older brother and a sweet younger brother. Close, the three of them, but a headache together. Having my brother here is bad enough. At least Nori's left both of his at home!" he chortled, and Bilbo looked a little confused, but he smiled easily enough.

"Well... thank you for the ointments, Healer Óin," Bilbo said after a moment, nodding to Óin and quietly leaving. Óin watched him thoughtfully, then turned his attention back to his plans for the evening, absently thinking he should catch a meal with Glóin later.

~

Thorin watched as Bofur walked out the door after their meeting, thinking about what Bofur had told him about Bilbo and wondering how the Hobbit would react to this change. Though Bofur was about to find Bilbo and bring him here, Thorin wanted to speak to Bilbo privately as well. He would be sure to speak to Bilbo tonight, if he could manage to return to his tent earlier than usual. His meetings usually kept him up late enough that Bilbo was asleep when he returned.

He was sitting at a table that looked much like the table in his tent, covered in maps and scrolls with plans, attack formations, lists of names, and other such items, along with a large book that held their war accounts, including all of the gold they had recovered and what they had spent on food. He had a good team of Dwarves to manage the books, and it was lucky that they had enough gold with them to repay the Dwarves from the other clans who had joined his war effort.

Across the table sat Balin and Dwalin, his longest and most trusted friends. He could tell that both had opinions on his decision, but time would tell if his friends would speak their thoughts.

"Seems a shame that you're sending the lad off before I get a proper chance to meet him," Dwalin started almost immediately, which did not surprise Thorin.

"He's going to be here soon," Thorin reminded him with a raised eyebrow.

"All the same," Dwalin protested, and beside him Balin chuckled.

"He seems shy, though that's to be expected of a Hobbit," Balin said. Thorin nodded in agreement, though privately he thought that Bilbo was shy for more reasons than that.

"I won't try to intimidate him," Dwalin said with a scowl, and Thorin hid a smile. "I just want to meet the Hobbit that saved Thorin!"

"Of course, of course," Balin nodded agreeably. "You will only stare at him the entire time and ask him abrupt questions whenever you think his guard is down, like you do every person who gets too close to Thorin," he said, and Thorin had to look away to hide his laugh, as Dwalin began to sputter.

"He is an odd little fellow, though," Balin continued over Dwalin's protests. Thorin raised an eyebrow in question, and Balin shrugged a bit. "I only mean -- his knowledge, for one. And his... relationship with the Defiler --"

" _Don't,_ " Thorin cut in sharply, giving Balin a frown, "call it a relationship. He was that Orc's _slave_ , nothing more. And you will not speak of that in front of him." Balin stared at him for a moment, his eyes a little wide, but he nodded soon enough, and Thorin was appeased.

"Protective, aren't you," Balin muttered, and Thorin scowled at him while Dwalin watched with interest.

"He is my guest and charge while he is here, and he saved my _life_ , Balin. I will not hear any slander against him," Thorin said, leaning forward, but Balin held up his hands.

"I mean no harm, Thorin. I only think it interesting, that he was clever enough to learn the language of Orcs, and even a bit of Khuzdul. Do you not worry about that? About the poor Dwarf who taught him those letters?" Balin asked.

Thorin sat back in his chair and picked up his ale, a short sigh escaping. "I already told you, Master Baggins said that he only knew the Dwarf as Kadan. That is not one of the family lines of Erebor, so it was likely someone from the Blue Mountains. Mahal rest his soul, but I am grateful that he taught Bilbo, who kept those treasures safe for us."

Balin nodded slowly, but his expression still seemed troubled. "But to give an outsider some of our sacred knowledge --"

"And in doing so, he safeguarded an entire wealth of that knowledge. You saw the scrolls, did you not? They are over a thousand years old, and what ancient knowledge they must hold... To me, they are worth the Hobbit learning the words to protect them," Thorin said, and he saw Dwalin nodding in agreement, though Balin seemed unsure. He did not blame his friend for his opinion, knowing that Balin was wary of sharing the knowledge of their people. Still, it bothered him that Balin would view Bilbo as suspicious. He was a _Hobbit_ , hardly a corrupt creature, unlike the Elves and some of the Men of the world.

Balin sighed and gave Thorin a thoughtful look. "It is already done, so I suppose there is nothing more to say on the subject. After you see the Hobbit off, what will be done here? The other commanders are already leaving with their rewards, and we still need to send a report to Dáin."

Thorin held back a sigh, picking up his ale and swishing it around in the tankard. "I am sending three regiments off tomorrow, you know that. They will return to Erebor with the news, and I've already chosen a group that will go on to the Iron Mountains to visit Dáin," he said, and Dwalin interjected with a thoughtful tone.

"So who are you going to pick to stay in Moria?" he asked, and Thorin stared down at his ale in thought, the answer now clearer to him than it had been months ago when the topic was first brought up, but he was still hesitant.

"I still have not decided... but I was considering Balin," he said lightly, and both of his friends looked at him in surprise.

"My Balin?" Dwalin asked, looking delighted. "My brother would be the best for the position, of course! Though I would miss you, brother, if you stayed."

Balin looked shocked, and Thorin gave him a small smile. "Me? But Thorin..."

"I trust you the most," Thorin said simply. "You are wise and patient, and you have the knowledge these halls will need to be revived. We already have over four hundred Dwarves who have volunteered to stay and help clean, account the treasure, and begin the work needed to bring Khazad-dûm back to its former splendor. I must speak with the representatives of the other clans, but I think they will agree, so long as they have some say... perhaps a council?"

"That sounds wise," Balin said slowly. "We should have a meeting about it soon," he said, seeming to regain his footing, and Thorin sighed at the thought of another meeting.

"Yes, of course. At this rate, it will be next year before all of these meetings are done and I may return home," he said, thinking of his kingdom, and Dwalin shot him a grin.

"Miss the brats, don't you?" he said knowingly, and Thorin rolled his eyes but smiled anyway.

"I'm sure Dís has them well in hand, and Frerin will hopefully have included them in his responsibilities as steward," Thorin said. Dwalin gave him a look, and Thorin snorted. "Of course I miss them! I have never been apart from them this long before. I had to lock them up to keep them from running after me, though I think they would have done well in battle," he said with a grin, thinking of his nephews fondly.

Dwalin nodded, sharing Thorin's grin, and Balin smiled at them both. "It will be good for you, to see Fíli and Kíli again," Dwalin said with a smirk. "Can't have you pining away too long, for your sweet sister-sons --"

"Shut up, Dwalin," Thorin growled, and Dwalin laughed.

"Aye, aye, just teasing, no need to glare at me."

They were interrupted by a throat clearing at the entrance to the tent, and all three Dwarves looked over to see Bofur and Bilbo Baggins standing there, peering past the cloth cover at them. "Master Baggins!" Thorin said, standing along with Dwalin and Balin, "Bofur, thank you. Come in, have a seat."

Bofur nudged Bilbo, who jumped a bit and entered the tent, walking over to the table and hesitantly sitting down across from Balin and Dwalin, while Bofur took the seat next to him. Bilbo eyed the two brothers warily but gave Thorin a small smile, and Thorin noticed how pink his cheeks were. Likely still embarrassed about last night, then.

"I hope you are doing well, Master Baggins?" Thorin asked, and Bilbo nodded after a moment.

"I'm fine," he said quietly, and Thorin eyed him for a moment but accepted the answer.

"I am certain you are curious why I have called you here. I believe it is time that you return to your kin," Thorin said, and Bilbo looked at him in surprise and a little trepidation.

"Go... back? This isn't, um, about..." Bilbo's cheeks turned a bit pinker, and Thorin figured he meant last night. He shook his head, ignoring the curious looks of Balin, Dwalin, and Bofur.

"No, just that it is the right time... and I have my promise to keep to you, after all. Healer Óin and I agree that you are healthy enough for the journey back. You were worse off than the others, after all, and barely more than skin and bones. Tomorrow, I will be sending off three of my regiments back to Erebor, and when they leave, you will depart as well, with Bofur as your guide," he said, gesturing to Bofur, who nodded and grinned at Bilbo.

The Hobbit looked lost and a little bit happy, but also anxious, likely at the thought of returning to the Shire after years of being away. After last night's heartbreaking words of _I want to go home_ , and the sound Bilbo had made afterwards, Thorin could understand the anxiety in his expression.

He had no idea what Bilbo's people were doing, only that they were living in the hills around Bree, as well as in the parts of the Shire that had been ravaged the least, mostly where their Thain lived. Last he had heard, most of the Shire was still unlivable, the Orcs' invasion having left the farm land blackened from fire and gore, the many hills raided and some even crushed, the little towns burnt.

He wondered if there was anything else he could do for the Hobbits, though he knew it was up to the Thain to determine his people's future. The thought of the Thain reminded him of a decision he had made a while ago, and he stood to walk over to another table, picking up a heavy scroll wrapped with a thick blue ribbon. He carried it over to Bilbo and laid it down in front of him, sitting down again.

"This is a message I would like you to carry to your Thain, Master Baggins, if you would be willing. The chest that you saved in Moria's library was already sent ahead, so you will not have much else to carry," Thorin said, and Bilbo nodded slowly.

"I will take it to him," he said quietly, and Thorin watched him for a moment, studying his expressions.

"It will take about two days to reach the outpost we have near the West-gate, and they will supply you for the journey. I am not sure if they will have ponies, but Bofur will protect you during the journey, no matter how long it takes. He has also been given leave to stay in Bree and assist your people if the winter is too harsh this year," Thorin continued after a moment.

Bilbo looked up at Bofur in surprise. "Don't you want to go back to Erebor?" he asked Bofur, and Bofur smiled at him.

"Waiting a bit longer doesn't bother me, Mister Baggins, no worries. I'm glad to help. Bifur will be sure to tell my family," he said. Bilbo watched him a moment, then looked back at Thorin.

"Thank you, Your Majesty... for everything," he said quietly, and Thorin nodded slowly.

"I must thank you as well, Master Baggins, for what you have done for me and my people. Neither of us would be here today, if it were not for each other," he said, and Bilbo's eyes brightened a bit, a small smile touching his lips.

They gazed at each other for a moment, before, inevitably, they were interrupted by Dwalin.

"Aye, you did a mighty brave thing back there, Master Baggins!" Dwalin said cheerfully, picking up his ale. "You saved our Thorin, and for that, we are all grateful. I am Dwalin, at your service!"

Balin nodded beside him, giving Bilbo a smile. "That we are, Mister Baggins."

Bilbo had jumped as soon as Dwalin had spoke, and he watched the two brothers with slightly wide eyes. "Ah... yes, it is... nice to meet you," he said hesitantly, and Thorin had to look away to hide his smile. He would not have crossed Bilbo and Dwalin, two people who were as different as day and night, and it was amusing to watch them. He considered the irony of introducing Bilbo to Dwalin just before the Hobbit was to leave, and the thought sobered him.

He was not sure if he wanted Bilbo to leave just yet. It was time, though, and he knew that Bilbo did not belong here.

"Have you spoken with Healer Óin yet, Master Baggins?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo started and looked at him, his cheeks turning pink again. "Oh, yes, he was very kind to give me medicine for the journey, as well as recipes for the, ah, ointments." Both Bofur and Dwalin snickered at the word, and Balin seemed to roll his eyes. "So... we are leaving tomorrow?"

Thorin nodded, glad that Bilbo had taken a liking to Óin and Bofur. "Yes, in the morning. Bofur will come find you when it is time," he said, and Bofur nodded agreeably. "That is all, I think. If you have any questions, you may find me later."

Bilbo nodded, then looked a bit worried, and Thorin waited for him to speak. "What about Gandalf?" Bilbo finally asked.

Gandalf. There had been no sign of the Wizard for days, no sign of Durin's Bane either, and Thorin worried for the old Wizard who had done so much for his people. "He has not returned yet," he said quietly. "I am planning a search party soon, though. I will send word, if you like, when we find him," he offered, and Bilbo looked troubled, but nodded.

"I would like that," the Hobbit said quietly. "Thank you." They sat in silence for a moment, before at least two stomachs in the room growled, and the sound made all of them laugh, even Bilbo, whose giggle caught Thorin's attention.

"Time for supper then! Bifur'll meet us there, he said," Bofur said, standing and nodding to Thorin.

Bilbo nodded and stood, watching Thorin for a moment, and he finally smiled, his cheeks still a little pink, but he seemed less embarrassed now. "Good evening then, Thorin... ah, Your Majesty," he said, catching Balin's frown, and Thorin sighed to himself.

"Good evening, Bilbo," he said pointedly, and Bilbo's cheeks flushed a bit more, but his smile was a bit wider when he left the tent with Bofur, and Thorin ignored Balin's worry and Dwalin's curiosity as he watched them leave.

Balin and Dwalin said nothing, and Thorin could feel their gazes on him, knowing he had behaved oddly in their eyes. Finally Balin spoke, and his question struck Thorin deeply.

"Why the Hobbit, Thorin? You have done much for him," Balin said quietly.

Thorin stayed silent for a long moment, thinking. "You remember when that fire drake was spotted, all those years ago?" he asked slowly, and Balin and Dwalin both nodded. "I think of that moment often... of what may have been for my people. What if the fire drake _had_ come to Erebor? What if Erebor had been lost? I think of what could have happened, of my people wandering, lost and hungry... then I look at the Hobbits now, and I see the nightmare that could have been Erebor, had that dragon attacked."

"Thorin," Dwalin started, but Thorin shook his head.

"What if it had been us in their position? Victims to Orcs and whatever other foul creatures that roam the earth, lost and alone, with no home? No one would have saved us. The Elves, what do they care about the troubles of Dwarves? Men would have no desire to come to our aid, either. No one would have given us a chance. Truly, my people would have been too proud to beg, but if we had... who would have given us anything? I think of my people when I see the Hobbits. So... I wish to help them, because nobody would have helped us," he said quietly, and for a long moment there was silence, as Balin and Dwalin digested his words.

"And Mister Baggins?" Balin finally asked.

Thorin gazed down at the map that was spread over the table, his eyes finding the circled mark of the Shire. "Bilbo Baggins is my responsibility," he said quietly, "because he was Azog the Defiler's personal slave. Azog was _my_ enemy, and through my failure in destroying him, that Hobbit was subjected to torments worse than any we can ever imagine. I did not make Azog do those things... but I did not kill him, and so he did them anyway.

"Instead of withering away like so many other of his kin, Bilbo Baggins has stayed strong and true, has not faltered or stumbled. He protected his people from death. He preserved invaluable historic artifacts of our people. He saved my _life_ , and he assured the death of my mortal enemy. I will always honor him for that alone," Thorin said, his voice firm.

Balin looked contemplative at his answer, and Dwalin was nodding. "Do well by your allies, and they will do well by you," Dwalin said, and Thorin gave him a smile.

"Just so. Now, I was thinking that tomorrow, I will..." and Thorin explained his plans for Bilbo, hoping that Balin would not disapprove too much.

Balin sighed and watched him with a hint of worry, not saying anything for a moment. "Well, Thorin, I cannot stop you, but you know this has not happened in a very long time. Are you certain about this?"

Thorin nodded, surprised that Balin had acquiesced, but pleased for it. "Very certain. He deserves it, and it is being crafted as we speak," he said, earning another frown from Balin, but there was a twinkle in the other Dwarf's eyes.

"You certainly have grown fond of this Hobbit," Balin said, and Dwalin laughed and began to tease Thorin, much to his consternation.

He was not _fond_ of Bilbo. He just appreciated him, after all. He had high respect for the Hobbit, and despite Balin's worries and Dwalin's insinuations, he was glad for the chance to show it. He hoped that Bilbo would appreciate his efforts, though it would likely embarrass him, in the end.

~

As it turned out, his meetings after dinner kept Thorin up very late, and by the time he returned to his tent, Bilbo was already fast asleep. Thorin was silent as he took off his leathers and boots, not wanting to wake Bilbo, who would need his sleep for the journey. He crept into bed and lay there for a long time, thinking of the Hobbit who would leave him tomorrow. Every so often he would hear a soft breath from the other side of the tent, and he wondered at himself, thinking that Balin was likely correct. Perhaps he was growing fond of the Hobbit, after all.

~

The next morning, Bilbo woke very early, after tossing and turning for most of the night in worry. He lay there for several minutes, listening to the low snores of the Dwarf on the other side of the tent, wishing he could convey the feelings that had taken hold of him ever since Thorin had told him he was leaving.

Gratitude. Anxiety. Hope. He was so very thankful to Thorin, who had saved his life, from Azog and from certain death. Thorin had saved his people, given him a new chance at life, and he did not know how to tell Thorin how happy he was. 

The news that he would be leaving had shocked him, yet he knew he should have expected it. He did not feel _ready_ to leave, though. He had never imagined himself leaving these caves ever again. He had always believed that he would die here.

He wished he could have expressed his feelings to Thorin yesterday. The presence of the other Dwarves had stopped his tongue cold, though. He had tried to stay up late and wait for Thorin, but he had fallen asleep before the Dwarf had returned.

Now Bilbo was awake, and Thorin was asleep. He wondered if he would get an opportunity at all.

After a long while, he heard Thorin stirring, and the faint snores stopped. Then he heard footsteps as the Dwarf got out of bed, and Bilbo decided to gather his courage, not wanting to miss his chance. He pushed his covers aside and grabbed his sweater, pulling it on, then crept to the edge of the screen that separated their sides of the tent, peering out.

He found Thorin standing at one of the tables, sipping at some water, his long hair loose and messy from slumber, wearing his sleep clothes still. Bilbo straightened in determination, stepping past the screen.

"Good morning," he said quietly.

Thorin started and looked over at him, his blue eyes widening, and Bilbo swallowed and clasped his hands in front of him. "Good morning, Master Baggins. Is everything alright?" the tall Dwarf asked, and Bilbo nodded.

"Yes, um... well, I was just wondering if... if we could talk," he said, watching Thorin shyly.

Thorin stared at him a moment, then nodded and poured a second glass of water, carrying it over to one of the tables, pulling out a chair for Bilbo and sitting down as well. Bilbo walked over and sat down, rubbing his feet together and picking up the water, sipping it gratefully, though his gaze stayed on Thorin.

This felt... strange. Usually he and Thorin stayed out of each other's ways, never rising at the same time, so besides the other night, he had not really seen Thorin like this, still mussed from sleep. Thorin was watching him attentively, though Bilbo could see the remnants of sleep in his blue gaze, which made his gaze drop.

"I suppose it is a bit early," Bilbo said, and Thorin shook his head slightly.

"Not so early as you might think. I do not sleep very late, after all," Thorin replied. Bilbo nodded slowly, feeling a bit awkward now, but he and Thorin finally had the chance to speak properly, without anyone in their way, and he tried to think of how to convey his thoughts.

Thorin said nothing else, and the silence between them stretched, not quite uncomfortable, though Bilbo could tell that Thorin was waiting for him to speak his mind.

As he gazed at the table, Bilbo thought of the many moments he had shared with Thorin, from the first time their eyes met after he had woken from Azog's abuse, to the night Thorin had held him as he had cried. He realized how much trust he had in Thorin -- that Thorin would protect him, that Thorin would send him home, that Thorin would not hurt him... that Thorin's touch would never harm him. It was more than he had allowed of some of the other Hobbits, all things considered, as he had rarely allowed himself to cry in front of his kin. 

Thorin had seen him at his weakest -- yet the tall Dwarf with his kind blue eyes and solemn expression did not look at him as a pitiable creature, but with a strange respect that Bilbo did not believe he had earned. Thorin was a _King_ , so far above him as a Hobbit and a former slave, and he could not see why Thorin would think of him so highly. He had rushed forward and stopped Azog from beheading Thorin, but it was more to end his master once and for all, than to protect Thorin -- right? He was no hero. He had done terrible, horrible things, and he did not deserve the respect and kindness that Thorin had gifted to him.

He lifted his gaze to watch Thorin, feeling his hands shaking around his cup, so he put them in his lap and clasped them tightly, opening his mouth several times, but the words would never come. He opened and closed his hands, rubbing them against his thighs a few times, fumbling for the words and feeling frustrated tears at the corners of his eyes.

"I cannot find the words," Bilbo blurted, and Thorin blinked in surprise, but Bilbo's thoughts spilled out between them before he could stop them, in a rush to convey what he needed to say. "I don't know how to thank you. You _saved_ me -- you took me away from him. You saved my friends... and I -- I do not know how to say thank you. I've wanted this for _so long_ \-- but there was always the chance that I would fail, that he would... hurt them, to hurt me. Or if I died -- that he would hurt them in his fury. And I -- I do not know what we would have done, if you had not come. I owe everything to you," he finished in a whisper, keeping his gaze on the table, his knuckles white as he gripped his pants.

There was a moment of silence, and unbidden, Bilbo spoke again, his shoulders tensing up. "You've treated me so nicely, like I'm someone special, and I really am _not_ special. I'm just Bilbo -- I was once _normal_. I've never done anything extraordinary, unlike my parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles. Then everything happened and now you are here and he is... dead, and -- I feel like it was all you, that I had nothing to do with it. Except I know it is my fault, that he is dead. And I feel so happy about that -- but I'm quite afraid, that this is a dream still. It does not feel real, sitting here with you -- it feels like he's going to shake me awake and I will be there in that room again, trapped in that hell."

He reached up and rubbed at his eyes, hearing his voice shaking, but he hurried on, determined to finish, lest he lose his courage and never utter another word to Thorin again.

"I could not believe it, when I saw you standing there. And you promised -- to save me, and to get the Hobbits out of there, and you _did_. You promised to send me _home_ \-- and you have kept every promise to me. For that, I do not know how to repay you at all, Thorin Oakenshield." He lifted his wet gaze and met Thorin's blue eyes, something in his chest shuddering at the expression on Thorin's face, still so solemn yet completely riveted to him, enthralled by his words.

"And now -- and now we're saying goodbye," Bilbo said quietly. "I feel like I've done nothing that can _ever_ match what you have given me. I don't want to say goodbye to you -- because if I do, I might never be able to repay you. I don't want to say thank you, because I know that it will never be able to convey the gratitude I feel toward you.

"I always thought... I would die here," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the table, not wanting to look at Thorin anymore. "But you saved my life. You gave me a future. I cannot... thank you... enough, Thorin Oakenshield, for what you have done for me. I want, so badly, to repay you, but I am not... whole, not right -- I am not good enough to repay my debt to you. Please tell me how I can repay you. Please... tell me what I can do, to make this right."

His voice fell into the hush between them, and Bilbo felt his cheeks slowly redden as Thorin stared at him and he kept his head down. He had not spoken this much at one time in years, not since he was a boy and he would read aloud to his father or talk his mother's ear off about his day.

He had _never_ revealed this much of himself to anyone. Part of him wanted Thorin to know about the atrocities he had done -- so that Thorin would no longer look at him with such kindness or respect, because he did not think he deserved it. At the same time, part of him _never_ wanted Thorin, or anyone else, to know that part of him.

As he tried to think of what he could do for Thorin, his thoughts turned to the two rings in his pocket. Perhaps he could give Thorin one? The heavy ring with the blue stone -- surely it would fit Thorin's hand, and maybe Thorin would be able to handle its visions better. It seemed like a proper gift, and some part of him felt that it belonged with someone else more than him.

 _It is not yet time,_ something whispered in the back of his mind. The thought drifted away, and Bilbo forgot the rings for now. Instead, he worried at the cloth bunched over his knee, trying not to imagine Thorin's expression right now.

Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, Thorin leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the table.

"You need do nothing at all, Bilbo Baggins," Thorin said quietly -- and Bilbo felt his heart freeze -- "because your debt to me was repaid the moment you thrust your sword into Azog the Defiler's back. You saved _my_ life, that day, and in the same movement, you destroyed the enemy that has haunted my people for countless years. The Defiler murdered my father, my grandfather, and more of my subjects than I can count. That he is dead, thanks to you... I can only thank you."

Bilbo stared at the table with wide eyes, remembering vaguely when Óin spoke of Azog writing his name on Thorin's father's forehead -- and an older memory, of Azog raving about the line of Durin, how he had already taken out two of them, but Thorin Oakenshield stood in the way of killing the rest. "But... that cannot -- that does not make us even," he whispered.

Thorin shook his head. "It is not a matter of balancing our debts to each other, Master Hobbit. What more can we do for each other? After all, we saved each other's lives, did we not? You have done a great deed for my people, and for me personally as well. I did what was only right, for you -- there was no way I could leave your people to suffer at the hands of Orcs."

Bilbo looked up, wanting to argue with him, but the look on Thorin's face -- determination, with a hint of stubbornness -- halted the words in his mouth. He floundered for a moment before lifting his hands, gesturing helplessly. "But... it is not enough --"

"It _is_ ," Thorin said firmly, but then his voice gentled. "You have shown me a great honor in saving my life and destroying my enemy at such a crucial time. You have also safeguarded priceless artifacts of Dwarven history. You have done many things for my people already --"

"But I want to do something for _you_ ," Bilbo said quickly, which made Thorin blink in surprise.

After a moment, Thorin nodded slowly. "If you insist upon repaying such a debt, then know that I shall endeavor to do the same. I... had intended upon doing this later, with a wider audience, but I think that perhaps, now is when you should receive it." He stood and walked over to another table, picking up a small cloth and carrying it over to the table, laying it before Bilbo. Carefully, he unfolded the cloth before the Hobbit's eyes, revealing a glittering necklace with an ornate key made of a pale silvery metal, without any precious stones, but beautiful all the same.

Bilbo stared down at the key in shock and confusion, and he lifted his head to stare up at Thorin, not understanding. "What...?"

Thorin sat down beside him and picked up the necklace, reaching up slowly and laying it over Bilbo's head, the key coming to rest on his chest, over his heart. "If you will not accept my words, then accept this, Bilbo Baggins. This is a token of my people, that marks you as _khuzdibâh_. It means 'Dwarf-friend.' If you feel you cannot repay me today -- then accept my token, and come to me later in life, when you can meet me as an equal and repay what debt exists between us. Know this, though -- I will do the same for you when we meet again. That is the promise in this token -- that we will always help one another, whenever the need arises." 

He sat back and watched Bilbo, seeming to hold his breath, but Bilbo was the one who could not breathe. To be gifted with something so precious -- and to have Thorin ask a promise of him, to find him later? Suddenly Bilbo could see it -- someday, when he was older and stronger and no longer so pitiful, he would walk to Thorin and meet his gaze without flinching, equal to him in all things.

Bilbo longed for that day, and he felt some tears spill over his cheeks, but he breathed in tightly and did his best not to cry, nodding slowly and lifting his gaze to meet Thorin's eyes. He reached up to take Thorin's hand, clasping it between both of his smaller hands. Though he could feel his heart thudding in his chest, he felt the rightness of the moment, as the promise settled on his shoulders. He could bear such a weight, if it meant repaying Thorin Oakenshield for all that he had done for Bilbo.

"It is a promise, then," Bilbo said quietly, and the smile that lit up Thorin's face was one he would remember forever.

~

Bilbo's departure was quiet compared to the march of three regiments of Dwarves. After Thorin left for the day, promising to see him off, Bilbo packed his meager belongings -- his sword, a few clothes, the ointments and scrolls, some soap and towels, and a bedroll. He was given a leather bag that held all of the items easily, and after he had secured everything, Bilbo left the tent to visit Óin and Bifur to say goodbye.

Óin lectured him for ten minutes on taking care of himself, then gruffly clasped his shoulder and told him he was a good lad. Bifur wished him the best of luck and, without any warning to Bilbo, reached up to grip the back of his neck to press their foreheads together. Bofur hurriedly explained that it was a Dwarven way of greeting and saying goodbye, so Bilbo did not react too badly. He did think he would miss Bifur, who was very charming and genial.

When it was time for them to leave, they watched the three regiments walk away along with Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, and many other Dwarf commanders. Thorin turned to watch Bilbo for a long moment, before he lowered his head in a respectful bow, then wished them both safe travels. Bilbo and Thorin had already said so much to each other, and the promise of Thorin's token rested on his chest beneath his shirt. He bowed back to Thorin and thanked him simply, and then he and Bofur left, knowing that it was not truly goodbye -- that someday, he would see Thorin again.

So Bilbo left the Dwarf camp as quietly as he had come, walking alongside Bofur who kept up a merry stream of conversation, keeping Bilbo's thoughts from growing too anxious. Each of them carried their own pack and a small lantern, lighting the way through the dark tunnels, though their path was already lit with torches in some places, from Dwarves who had traveled these halls not long before.

Two days passed quietly as they walked. They found the outpost, where two Dwarves gave them a bag of grain, a bag of apples, and a bag of smoked sausages. Bilbo was given the apples to carry in his pack, and at first he thought he would not be able to handle carrying such a heavy weight. He grew used to the burden, though, and he felt glad that he had become strong enough to carry it.

Then, after a few more hours, they came to the end of a cave, and Bofur winked at him before stepping forward, speaking _bâh_ to the wall -- and Bilbo's heart thudded in his chest when the wall began to change into a door. He stood very still, as a crack of light appeared in the center of the door.

Then the door opened, and for the first time in seven years, since the skies of the Shire had turned black, Bilbo saw sunlight again.

He stared up into the bright light, scarcely daring to blink, for fear that the vision would fade away. Warmth touched his face, and he had to close his eyes briefly, soaking in the feeling of true freedom. He walked forward out of the darkness, and despite the chill in the air, he felt warm as he stepped into the sunlight.

He was _nûl-lûpûrz_ no more. He was, as he had always been, Bilbo Baggins, and finally, _finally_ , he was going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you have been asking for Azog and Bilbo's history, and you'll be happy to know that such a story is in the works! I'll post it either as a prequel or an interlude for _Pain-Bearer_ , and I hope you enjoy it when it comes out.
> 
> The next chapter will be an interlude, and then we will begin Bilbo's journey to the next part of his life, while keeping an eye on Thorin and his many plans. Thank you all for your amazing support, comments, and fanart!
> 
> Speaking of fanart, check out this picture by pandaface13, of [Thorin singing to Bilbo](http://amberstarfight.tumblr.com/post/94567402094/pandaface13-pain-bearer-by-lilithiumwords)! And this gif by youcantsaymylastname of [Azog and Bilbo](http://youcantsaymylastname.tumblr.com/post/42876292853/may-i-suggest-a-hobbit-fan-fic-today-its)! <3333 You guys are so awesome!!!!


	16. Interlude: The rise and fall of power

In the bright unknown, there was a beautiful world. It was a massive land that stretched far along the edges of time, with high peaks and deep valleys carved into the earth, and thick forests of many, many different trees curving along the hills. Along the coastline were many natural caves and outlets made of rock, and within one of these holds lay a sparkling city of pearl and ivory. The entire land was breathtaking, with cities and towns resting in the natural holds the land provided, including a city of white with a great silver lantern in a high tower, visible to any who crossed the seas to the east. Tall, beautiful beings walked about the land, carrying with them a grace that was even greater than those of the elves of Arda. The seas rose and fell gently, like any other sea, but within their depths glittered the ageless light of thousands of stars.

This was a land of legend to some. Others called it home.

In the highest of the mountains of this land, there was an immensely tall peak that shone white. On that peak rested a grand city of spiraling towers, glittering white halls, and a spacious courtyard, filled with the most beautiful of flowers and trees. Many eagles, hawks, and other birds flew about the great mansion, taking rest in the tall aviary or dipping into the gentle streams that wove through the courtyard.

In one of these halls, there was a room open to a small and delicate garden of flowers, budding trees leaving white petals on the ground. In this room was a bed of silken linens, and on this bed slumbered a man rejuvenated and young. He had long silvery hair that was once a dusky grey, and some might have once known him as a tall fellow with oddly thick eyebrows. He looked nothing like what those of the distant lands of the Shire and Imladris had known of him, though he still carried a level of age, an air of gravity and knowledge that few others did.

He was known to some as Mithrandir, to others as Gandalf. In these white halls, in this distant, beautiful land of legend, he was known as Olórin.

A beautiful voice, as deep as the sky and as light as the wind that carried blossoms to the ground was heard across the garden outside this room, and to it another voice responded, sweet and lilting, with all the grace of the stars. They spoke in a language older than time, but the man sleeping on the bed would have understood it, for it was his cradle-tongue and the language of his heart.

_"His body has healed, yet he sleeps so deeply."_

_"His soul carries the weight of fire and loss. Let him sleep."_

_"His soul may never heal. Someday he will return again, and then he may rest without worry."_

_"You mean to send him back."_

_"Not as he is. You and I will both see to that. The darkness in the land grows every day."_

_"Yes... as you have seen, and as I have heard. He will be needed. They will all be needed -- but I fear for Curumo. He speaks into the darkness with envy. I have heard whispers... he seeks the One to rule them all..."_

_"I have not seen it. Unless the eyes know it for its true self, I cannot see it. Yet I suspect -- there, in the dark lands, where the little people are."_

_"Yes... that halfling, the one Nienna has chosen."_

_"He carries two rings. One is wrought with a blue gem, and it belongs to Aulë's children. The other... simple and gold, but fire will show the truth."_

_"I have heard it. It whispers of fire and darkness, but he does not hear it. He has not placed it on his finger, not even once."_

_"If he had, it would be noticed. It would be seen and heard by those in the darkness. Such an odd creature..."_

_"Nienna chose well of him, this halfling... this bearer, of things seen and unseen, heard and unheard. Though the darkness surrounds him, he walks through it as if it were merely a mirage. Nienna's influence, and perhaps a touch of Námo's power..."_

_"What else was to be done, my wife? When the darkness spread across the green lands of the halflings, Nienna came to us herself. Her wish was granted, and now this child walks, bearing such pain... and a ring that he has no desire to carry. Olórin must guide him far to the south, deep into the darkness, where he may lose every hope... but Nienna has wept for him."_

_"Yes. He shall carry it far away, to where it was wrought... but it will not happen for many years. I wonder, my husband... perhaps that journey was meant for another?"_

_"It has always been, and will always be, meant for someone who cannot be lost to the darkness. Halflings... such an odd race. The other bearer, was he not a halfling too, once?"_

_"Yes. A curious race of creatures. It is no wonder that Olórin likes them so. Come, my husband, let us walk together, and when Olórin wakes, he shall know our thoughts."_

_"As my wife wishes."_

Their voices were carried away, as the lady in white and the lord in blue walked from the quiet garden and the sleeping man. Though he slept, his mind still heard, deep within the slumber of exhaustion and power. Time in the beautiful land passed differently than it did in the place where he had fallen, yet within his mind there was no time, no space, only the edge of eternity and the knowledge of a thousand ages. 

In his dreams, he saw the young Hobbit who carried many things, seen and unseen, heard and unheard. He heard his lady in grey walking with the young halfling, her head bowed as she wept. He saw a ring on a white chain on the halfling's neck, and he saw that ring being carried to a distant mountain of fire and darkness. He heard armies rise and fall so that they may take this ring, or that country, or this land, or that belief. He saw the kings of lands that already had been touched by darkness, kings in glittering robes and kings in dirty leathers, kings who would be touched by darkness themselves. He saw them fall, and he saw them rise. He heard his old friend, speaking into the darkness and commanding it for himself. He saw the fall of great and wise men, to power and darkness, to death and destruction.

He saw and heard as his Lord and Lady did.

Through it all, he felt the light of hope, for a simple life and a simple peace, burning in the hearts of those who fought against the darkness.

~

_A lady in grey walked along the edge of the river, her head bowed as she traveled from the hall of waiting. Olórin watched and waited, and she looked up as she approached him. She pushed her hood back slightly, and her large eyes were dark with grief, but she met him with grace and reached out to take his hand. Together they walked._

_"You have walked the shadows," she whispered._

_Olórin did not speak. He did not need to; he was only here to hear her mercy._

_"You have seen the darkness. You have seen the despair of many, yet you do not fall to its power._

_"In the lost halls of Aulë's children, there was a great darkness. So many lost to terror and despair. So many lost to the darkness, to the evil that could not stop itself._

_"My little child was there. You saw in him what I placed -- a mercy for the children. A mercy for the old. A mercy for the weary ones who could no longer go forward. Those poor souls..."_

_A tear ran down her cheek, but still Olórin said nothing, only squeezed her hand._

_"He is a bearer, of things seen and unseen, heard and unheard, touched and untouched. Please guide him, Olórin. Do not let him fall. Guide him, as you guided the children of Aulë and the sons of men -- as you will guide all the people of the world._

_"Look after him, Olórin, and after yourself. Take hope with you, and always pity, for those who cannot help themselves, and for those who need help but cannot ask for it."_

_She stopped, and he turned to face her, reaching up carefully to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Once he had pulled her grey hood down again, he knelt before her and kissed her hand, giving her his promise._

_"Yes, my lady."_

~

When Olórin's eyes opened, a thousand ages later, he knew his Lord's and Ladies' thoughts as if they had just spoken to him. The power in him burned, as it had been a part of him for all his life. He knew what he had to do. His time in Middle-Earth had left his knowledge dusty and disused, as in the age of peace, he had ignored the signs of darkness. No more. He knew he would be sent back -- and he knew of the path he should take, to defeat the darkness and protect that precious light.

~

Olórin saw the fleeting image of a sweet-smelling garden lit with starlight, before darkness took him. When he knew himself again, he was lying in a soft bed of silk, in a room open to the forest and stars, lit by soft lanterns.

He was himself, but no longer Olórin. He was once again Gandalf, a Wizard of Middle-Earth, yet he was not as he had been.

He felt power as he had not held before. He felt his spirit rising with hope, light, and a great understanding of the world. He felt the darkness on the edge of the land creeping ever closer. He knew he had to act, but first he had to ascertain his surroundings and self.

His hair was long and white, as it had been when he was young, shining and soft. His body felt strong and young again, though when he touched his face, he felt the wrinkles of an old man. His favorite disguise, though changed through the gain of knowledge and power. There were new scars on his body, remaining from his battle with the Balrog. His long beard was as white as his hair, and Gandalf felt a wry smile appear on his lips, wondering if his Lord and Lady were laughing at him.

He looked around and realized he knew this place. The forests of Lothlórien. He realized that his body had stayed here while his spirit had rested in Aman. A piece of knowledge came to him, that Gwaihir had carried him here, and he felt gratitude toward his Lord for watching over him.

Gandalf rose from the bed and found a robe of white with a silver sash hanging over a chair. He lifted it and pulled it over his thin body, realizing that it matched the white staff that was leaning against the wall nearby. He glanced at his hand and saw Narya, and with only a thought, he hid it from the eyes of others. When he reached out to take his staff, the power settled into him easily, the sensation like coming home. He looked to the table in the center of the room and saw the sword that had come to him in the halls of Khazad-dûm by Bilbo Baggins' efforts.

"Mithrandir," called a deep and beautiful voice, and he turned to see an old and precious friend.

"My Lady Galadriel," he said, and they both smiled.

~

Deep in the dungeons of Dol-Guldur, a tall and muscular Orc with a white eye and a vicious scar across his face raised his whip and cracked it down on the back of a small and pathetic creature that screamed in pain.

He was Bolg, once a great Orc king, and within him burned the fury of a ruler who had lost his throne, and a son who had lost his father, though no love had ever existed between him and the Orc who had sired him. Instead it was a matter of pride, that his father had fallen to lesser beings who lived and walked in freedom while Bolg had prostrated himself before a stronger being and begged for safety.

He, like so many other Orcs, had been without a home, thanks to the actions of the Dwarves, who had taken their caves in Moria at the cost of thousands of Orc lives.

The great halls of Moria had once housed thousands of Orcs, but no more. Here and there, in small pockets that were very hard to access, there remained a few small clans, but most of the creatures of darkness had fled when Thorin Oakenshield and his army of Dwarves had swept through the Misty Mountains.

Only in the far north did a city of Orcs remain, and it was called Gundabad. It could hardly be called a city, though, as it had been deserted by its first leader and the majority of its so-called citizens. The wounded and clanless stayed here, after fleeing from the axes and swords of thousands of angry Dwarves. It would become the last great refuge of Orcs and goblins, but by no means was it a prosperous city. King after so-called king would fall as soon as they gained a seat of power, until one called the Great Goblin came to control the city, though still murder and mayhem ruled the minds of the Orcs who lived there. Dirt, filth, blood, gore -- some days it burned with rage, some days it simmered with hatred. The Orcs there felt true hate as they had not felt since their creation.

Bolg, the original leader of the city, had left months ago when he had heard of the fall of his father, the great Azog the Defiler of the mines of Moria. He had taken with him his clan and followers, and they had disappeared deep into the darkened forests of Mirkwood, to the ruins of Dol-Guldur. Though fury made his black blood run hot, he had the cunning of his father and knew when to retreat, for the Dwarves who remained in Moria would no doubt seek to defeat him as they had his father.

Instead, Bolg son of Azog sought the protection of the dark sorcerer who lived in Dol-Guldur, to use his rage as fuel for the dark acts the necromancer would ask him to commit. He would live, and he would remember. Someday, he would get his revenge on those Dwarves, especially on the two beings who had killed his father together: the Dwarf King of Erebor, and his father's pet Halfling.

~

In the Great Smials of Tuckborough, there walked a Hobbit, carrying a small basket in one hand and two scrolls in the other, thinking about how strange his body felt, to be thin, so unlike his father who had been properly rotund as only a Hobbit should.

They were all thin. It had been a harsh winter, and it was already the third month in. Most of the aid from other lands had dried up, spent on food that had to be overpriced, but they bought it anyway from passing Men who wished them luck but hurried on. No one was starving by human standards, but by Hobbit standards, they were hungry. Three meals a day as well as tea, and sometimes the tea leaves were reused from the morning -- nothing like the standard Hobbit fare.

But life was not as it had been seven years ago. Every harvest time there had been fewer crops, less grains and potatoes to store for winter, which was made worse with every group of Hobbits who had returned home from the Misty Mountains. There was enough to survive, to be sure, but not enough to be plentiful as it had been in years past. The poison from the Orcs' raid was seeping into every piece of land around them, darkening the soil and leaving the vegetables spindly and the fruit sour. What food stores had been hidden in the empty homes around them had been taken and shared, so that everybody could make it through the winter -- but this would not last.

Life could not go on this way.

So thought the Thain, Fortinbras Took II, who walked through his home to his cousin Bilbo's room. He was tall for a Hobbit, with the sandy blonde hair of his family and the dark eyes of his mother. His father, rest his poor soul, had died during Shirefall, and so Fortinbras had taken his title and attempted to make sense of the chaos the Orcs had left behind. He was very young for a Thain, and he doubted he would have gained the title so soon in his life, had it not been for the Orcs' invasion.

Shirefall had been a dark and terrible time. So many missing, so many dead, and the Orcs had run about as they wanted, grabbing up Hobbits and carrying them off for sinister purposes. No one had realized exactly what, thinking that those poor Hobbits would certainly be dead by the end of the day.

The Orcs had not been in the Shire long, though, before the Rangers from the North swept down and drove them out, but the wound upon the land was too deep. So many dead. So many missing. So many broken families, empty homes. It had been so dark then, and for months afterward, they had all been lost, unable to piece together their lives after losing so much.

Fortinbras had stepped up and called every Hobbit to the Great Smials. They would account for who was still alive and who had been found dead. They would make a list of the missing. They would mourn, and they would move on. Tuckborough had been the least ravaged, so all of the families were asked to come live there, because they would be greater and better prepared for the future with greater numbers.

So the Hobbits crept into Tuckborough, though many hid in other places, further from the Shire in fear of another Orc raid. Two years had passed, and carefully, they began to heal.

Then a small group of weary and scared Hobbits wandered into Tuckborough, looking thin and wild in torn clothes, lead by Dwarves who were rather bewildered by it all. Then came the news that no one had expected:

They had been slaves.

Terrifying, but they were all overjoyed nonetheless. Some of their missing had lived! There had to be more who lived -- so many had been taken, surely not all had become dinner? And months later, again: a much larger group of Hobbits returned, this time in simple clothes spun by their Dwarf guides.

So there grew a great hope for the Hobbits of Tuckborough, as each day they kept an ear out for Dwarves' boots stomping up the path. Who might come home next? Who might be alive, out there in those dark mountains?

But with every group of Hobbits, there came some bad news: this father was murdered. This child had been eaten. This grandparent had tripped and died.

But at least they knew. At least the list of 'MISSING' grew shorter, names crossed out, but the list of 'DEAD' grew longer, names written in shaky black ink. Fortinbras knew there would always be names on the list of 'MISSING,' for they would never be able to find all of their friends and family -- but like every Hobbit who lived in his family home, he had hoped.

Now, seven years later, the last of the slaves had come home. So many families reunited, so many more broken hearts -- and amongst all of them, dark rumors of a young man, barely more than a boy, who fought back against his Orc master. A Hobbit who protected the children of his master's clan from being touched. A Hobbit who may have helped murder other Hobbits -- but to protect them from being eaten or raped by Orcs?

Fortinbras had heard the rumors, had listened to the frantic worries of anxious Hobbits whose children spoke of the _pain-bearer_ , whose old parents simply shook their heads and muttered _that poor boy_ , whose friends muttered in clusters after that 'boy' had walked by.

Bilbo Baggins, his first cousin, and possibly a braver Hobbit than any of them could be -- and possibly a more dangerous Hobbit than any other in his house, if the rumors were to be believed.

Bilbo had been quiet ever since he had returned, escorted by a cheerful Dwarf who was staying the winter, along with some other Dwarves, in one of the smaller smials nearby. Ever since his return, rumors had abounded about him and his time as Azog the Defiler's slave. Some insisted that Bilbo had sided with the Orcs, that he was a violent and dangerous person, while others, the Tooks, Brandybucks, and few Bagginses the loudest of them, had defended Bilbo fiercely.

From what Fortinbras could tell, there were a few things out of the rumors that were definitely true: Bilbo had been Azog's personal slave. He had slept in the Orc king's room. He had spent a lot of time with the other Hobbits. He had bodily protected the children from harm. 

What nobody could really figure out, because none of the former slaves would talk about it outright, was whether Bilbo had gained access to some sort of poison and used it on his fellow Hobbits. Many of the older Hobbits, none of whom had been former slaves, believed he had and were pushing Fortinbras to throw Bilbo out of the home -- but Fortinbras could not ignore the truth.

The children loved Bilbo. None of the former slaves would hear a word against him. Bilbo himself was a polite and kind Hobbit, who kept to himself when he was not playing with the children or spending time with his remaining family.

What Fortinbras believed was that Bilbo and the other slaves had suffered so much more than any of the Hobbits who had survived and remained in the Shire. He believed that Bilbo, and a few other Hobbits who had acted like him, had made the best of his situation and helped where they could. Fortinbras did not know what he himself would have done in such a situation -- but Bilbo Baggins had done what few others could have: he had protected the Hobbits with him, and his actions had inspired similar acts in other Orc clans' slaves.

It amazed Fortinbras that such ugly rumors were circling about a young Hobbit who could earn a smile from any child that saw him. Some of the parents were getting anxious about it, believing Bilbo dangerous, but Fortinbras knew that Hobbit children were the most honest of their race, seeing through any guile someone may exhibit, and Bilbo Baggins had none.

The young Baggins was an honest Hobbit who had suffered many things, and Fortinbras was ashamed of how the other Hobbits were behaving toward him. Bilbo seemed to know about the rumors, as he had been spending less time with children of other families, only playing with the fauntlings of Took or Brandybuck descent, sometimes the Bolger and Proudfoot children as well. He rarely left his room except to visit his kin or occasionally the Dwarves, not even during meal times, which were held in the massive hall in the middle of the Great Smials.

Last week, someone had complained about Bilbo snitching food late at night, but Otho Sackville-Baggins had charged forward and bellowed about Bilbo eating only once or twice a day now because certain people did not want him to join the communal meal time, causing a loud argument right there at the table. Rorimac Brandybuck and even Drogo Baggins had started throwing punches, leaving Fortinbras and his uncles to drag eleven young Hobbits to another room for a very long lecture.

It had not been like this five months ago, when Bilbo had returned shortly after the large group of Hobbits from the Misty Mountains. Everyone had been too happy to be reunited with their family and friends to think much of him, save the Tooks, Brandybucks, and Bagginses. Fortinbras had taken Bilbo in at his aunt Mirabella's urging, though he would have accepted Bilbo into his home no matter what, as Bilbo had few relatives left on his father's side. 

(Otho Sackville-Baggins, Drogo Baggins, Rosa Took née Baggins, her son Aldagrim, Linda Proudfoot née Baggins, and her son Odo -- the only Bagginses left out of the once large family, along with Bilbo. All of them lived in the Great Smials; Otho and Drogo even lived in the same hall as Bilbo, alongside Mirabella Brandybuck and her many children, all of whom had miraculously survived.)

Bilbo had been polite, but quiet -- much quieter than Fortinbras remembered. It was only later during a visit from the helpful Dwarves staying for the winter that everyone learned that Bilbo had helped the Dwarf King win his war against Azog the Defiler. One Dwarf in particular, the oddly charming Bofur, was insistent upon singing Bilbo's praises whenever he visited -- and it was likely because of these stories that most of the Hobbits did not believe the darker rumors about Bilbo now.

Four months, three months, even one month ago, Bilbo had rarely avoided the others as he did now. He had come to meals as normal, had visited his Dwarf friends at least once a day, had played with the children often and spent much time in the library, when he was not offering this uncle or that family help with whatever task was in order for the day. He had smiled sometimes and seemed at ease, though like the other Hobbits returned from the Orcs, he rarely embraced his family and even more rarely did he let anyone embrace him. 

Then, as the snow set in and the ability to travel and work lessened, the other Hobbits began to gossip as they were wont to do. They began to talk, to help their families heal, but no one wanted to talk about what happened in the Misty Mountains. Those who did always whispered about it, and never with anyone who had not been there. It was impossible to talk about, and the way the former slaves sometimes looked at Bilbo led some to believe that he was bad, dangerous even.

It seemed impossible, though. Part Took though he was, Bilbo had always been a kind and cheerful person, much like the famous Belladonna herself. Adventure may have run in their blood, but they were not capable of violence, of horrible things -- yet had Bilbo not killed an Orc? Still, that was defeating something evil, not hurting a fellow Hobbit. Fortinbras could not believe the rumors. He knew his cousin.

Still, someone had made yet another complaint, so Fortinbras had come to visit Bilbo for appearances' sake, though he was actually intending to have a chat. When Bilbo had returned, he had given Fortinbras a heavy scroll that was signed by Thorin, King under the Mountain, and one that Fortinbras had contemplated many times in the past several months. He had considered the people of the Shire, the Dwarves who had helped them so much and brought so many of them home, and the loss of their farmland. All these things had been building to an important decision in his mind, and he wanted to ask Bilbo his thoughts. He already knew the thoughts of his aunts and uncles, as well as his Brandybuck cousins, but it would be interesting to learn Bilbo's opinion.

They could no longer stay near the Shire. Those older and wiser than him did not truly want to leave, but they understood his reasoning. There was nothing more for the Hobbits here, in a land that had been destroyed by monsters.

Fortinbras believed that they should leave the Shire. He hoped to take all who still lived away from this dark place, back to the land where they had all come from. The old tales whispered of green lands and a great river, and perhaps there still existed smials there. At least the land would be untainted by death or grief.

It would be a new start for all of them, in the Vale on the other side of the Misty Mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Mimi Sardinia for her inspiration and help with the details in this chapter!
> 
> I don't know how many of you are on tumblr, but the amazing milkbubble drew [this simply stunning cover piece](http://milkbubble.tumblr.com/post/43409320201/pain-bearer-is-literally-sucking-my-brain-if-you) based on Chapter 15. I can't get over how amazing you guys all are, for liking this story so much that you make fanart for it. Thank you!!!


	17. Looking back, walking forward

_Solmath 27, Shire-reckoning 1331 (February 17, Year 2931, in the Third Age of the Sun)_

In the Great Smials of Tuckborough, known as the Took Ancestral Home to some, there lived not just the Tooks, but many other families, such as the Brandybucks, the Bagginses, the Bolgers, the Proudfoots, the Greenhands, and more. Many orphans, widows, and widowers also lived there, as their homes and families had been destroyed almost eight years ago. Children with no parents were taken care of by a small legion of mourning mothers and fathers. The mansion was massive enough to hold dozens of Hobbits, and each room had at least one occupant, depending on how large the family was. Some families had been reduced to a few members -- and still more had been almost entirely destroyed, with only one last Hobbit to carry on the name. Some families had not survived at all.

One room in particular held a single Hobbit, another orphan, but a Took by blood still. His room was one of the few with a window, and even better, a window seat. The room had once belonged to his mother, a cherished daughter of the Tooks, and it was just as precious to its young occupant.

In the small window seat, there slept a young Hobbit, thin limbs curled in over his head as if to protect himself from a blow, though he was relaxed in slumber. The window seat was unlike a normal Hobbit seat, in that most of the pillows were gone, and those that remained were getting a bit threadbare, as if the owner had not had time to patch them or stitch up new ones. The curtains were pulled closed to keep out the cold. Still, the Hobbit looked cozy, snoozing beneath a thick and colorful quilt, his dark blonde curls peeking over the fabric, while outside, a blizzard brewed.

There were a few scribbles on the walls here and there, and some of the colors were quite bright. There was a bed big enough for an adult Hobbit, though it was missing its quilt. There was a small closet left open with a few shirts, some trousers, and a single green coat hanging inside, seemingly too big for the small occupant of the window seat. It was nothing like a normal Hobbit's closet, which usually held dozens and dozens of cheerful, colorful outfits. 

Against one wall was a small fireplace with logs stacked to the side, the embers burning low, a thick rug of colorful cloth laid before the hearth. Two delicate teacups and an old hairbrush rested on the mantel, and a dried flower chain hung over the side, yellowed with age. There was a small table with a single lamp, and scattered along the floor were a few books, some of the covers burnt and worn. A chest lay against the wall, propped open, most of the contents carefully arranged, showing a past that was much beloved but long over: a few more books, a delicate tea cozy, a dark wooden pipe, a gardener's hat, among other small things. A small sword hung from a hook on the wall, Elvish in make but small enough to fit the Hobbit who slept nearby. Two pictures were hung on the wall beside smaller pictures of penciled artwork, the wooden frames darkened from exposure to fire, but the Hobbits drawn inside were easy enough to recognize.

Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, deceased. Their only son, Bilbo Baggins, slept in the cramped window seat, in a room that had once belonged to his mother as a girl. The room was nothing like a proper Hobbit's room, missing many of the normal comfortable and cheerful decorations. Everybody who stayed in the Took ancestral home had a room like this, mostly empty save for who slept in it and their few belongings. Everything that could be spared had been given away to other families, many of whom stayed with the Tooks, and still more in the nearby Hobbit homes that had not been ravaged by Orcs.

Outside, the smial hall was long and winding, with several Hobbits passing by the door, most ignoring it. Occasionally, someone would stop by the door and lean in to listen for movement inside. Otho Sackville-Baggins, Bilbo's cousin and once-aggravant, though he seemed more anxious than irritable now, his face a bit bruised. Linda Proudfoot, his aunt through his father, her face weary and thin. Rorimac Brandybuck and his little sister Primula, wanting to play but deciding to leave upon hearing no noise. Oftentimes other children, who would try to sneak into the room, only to be caught up in an aunt's or mother's arms and carried off to be scolded.

Bilbo slept on, having curled up in the window seat not long after breakfast (which had been early for him, early enough that the Hobbits who cooked in the morning had not even stoked the fires, leaving Bilbo with leftover porridge and an apple). He had sat and watched the sun rise, but not long after dawn, clouds had set in and snow began to fall, leaving Bilbo to drift as the snow did, his thoughts faraway. He could have gone to the family library if he had wanted, but he knew that the parents would have lessons for the children that morning, so he had chosen to stay in his room. Beneath the quilt he was warm, though the air in the room was chilled.

When one of the logs in the fireplace broke and let off a few sparks, Bilbo woke suddenly, blinking in the dim light and breathing in deeply. He knew by the smell of the room that he was home and safe, and he let himself relax, his racing heart slowly easing back to a normal beat. He pushed aside the quilt but then shivered and rubbed his arms, glancing at the low fire.

"Bugger," he muttered, pulling his thick wool sweater -- Dwarvish in make -- more tightly around his thin body. Then he dropped from the window seat and hurried across the room to the fireplace, picking up some logs and twigs, to stoke the fire back to life. When the flames were high enough to leave his cheeks flushed, Bilbo scurried back to the window and took his quilt, going to sit at the end of the bed.

While he waited for the room to warm up, Bilbo pulled a necklace from beneath his clothes and looked down at it, letting it pool in his palm. On the necklace, of a pretty silver, were strung three items: an ornate key of the same material, a thick gold ring that may have fit a Man once, and another thick gold ring with a heavy blue gem, cut square and large. These were Bilbo's treasures, as important to him as the chest of his parents' belongings, the last two cups of his mother's Westfarthing porcelain, and the Elvish sword which his cousins had begun to call 'Sting,' for its small size and sharp edge.

The two rings had come to him while he had been a slave in Azog's halls, and they had kept him company for years. The key, on the other hand, had come to him rather recently, from the hand of a Dwarf that had saved Bilbo's life. His family had been astounded by his tale, and sometimes his cousins had teased him, but Bilbo cherished the key, for its meaning and intentions.

_Thorin._

The thought of the stoic and kind Dwarf King caused a small ache in his chest, and Bilbo sighed, dropping the necklace beneath his shirt again and closing his eyes, thinking of his promise.

A promise, to become a better person, so that he could stand tall again and meet his savior as an equal, someday far in the future.

Bilbo clung to that promise every day, because some days it did not seem to be enough. Some days were so dark for him that he could barely see spring, let alone a future that was several years away. 

He was very grateful for his family, who had remained by his side throughout the last several months, who had supported him and defended him when others pointed fingers and lay accusations. What they had accused him of was cruel, but within the details were the lie -- the rumor was half-wrong. His accusers did not actually realize how true their words were. They whispered all the same, and Bilbo had not wanted to bother anybody, so he mostly stayed out of everyone's way.

His cousins Drogo and Otho, tweens as they were, always scolded him for hiding away in his room, but Bilbo could not help it. He felt ages older than his cousins, even Rory who had survived Azog's halls with him. All of them could smile and laugh and talk easily, but Bilbo could barely speak to other Hobbits, except his family, the children, and the Hobbits who had been in Azog's halls -- but he did not see them often, either, as they lived in different parts of the Great Smials, and he rarely left his own hall.

So many members of his family were gone. All of his Baggins aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins, except his first cousin Otho, his second cousin Drogo, his aunt Linda, and his father's cousin Rosa. The grand and respectable Baggins family, reduced to three orphans, two widows, and their sons.

All murdered by Orcs. Their names were written, along with Bilbo's parents and dozens of other Hobbits' names, on the massive wall in the front hall of the Took estate. There was another list on the opposite wall, with _MISSING_ scrawled across the top, but many names had been crossed out, many rewritten on the other side of the hall.

*

_Standing between Otho and Drogo, who despite their childhood feud had clung to each other for the past seven years, believing themselves the only Baggins boys left, until Bilbo walked into Tuckborough one late afternoon --_

_Bilbo picked up a heavy feather pen and touched it to the thick paper on the wall --_

_**Belladonna Baggins** , he wrote on the paper, and his hand was shaking hard enough that Baggins almost looked like Boggens --_

_And when he was done, they pulled him away and took him to where Aunt Mirabella was sitting holding onto Primula, and she pulled him close and held him too, while Rory reached over and took his hand._

*

At least he still had his Took and Brandybuck aunts and uncles, and his Baggins family. Bilbo had arrived in Tuckborough only six days after his kin had, as he and Bofur had moved at a good pace, small as their company was. Thus his cousins and aunts and uncles had waited every day for sign of him, and the thought still made Bilbo's eyes prickle with happiness.

It still struck him how happy he had been to see Otho and Drogo, two cousins who had always tested his temper, standing there at the front of the crowd that had gathered to wait for him. Otho had been the first to grab him in a hug, and not even the panic from being touched had stopped Bilbo from holding onto him tightly.

*

_They were walking along the path into Tuckborough, and Bilbo saw a few children spot them and wave, then run off, no doubt to find their parents. Bofur was singing loudly and Bilbo was humming along, though when they reached the top of the next hill, the notes died in his throat when he laid eyes on the Great Smials. There were people waiting for him --_

_Drogo, thinner than he had ever been, and behind him Otho, looking severe and sour as usual, and beside them Rory, who started shouting when he saw Bilbo and Bofur -- all of Rory's siblings, down to little Primula who was jumping in her place, Aunt Mirabella holding her shoulders tightly -- and Aunt Donnamira and Uncle Isengar, even Aunt Linda and cousin Rosa, and their children --_

_Then his cousins all broke out into a run, and Bilbo choked back a sob and began to run as well, and when he wrapped his arms around Otho, he started crying, holding out a hand to grip Drogo as he pulled close, feeling Prim and Amy grabbing onto his sweater, touching him, but he **did not care** \--_

_His family was **alive**._

*

He and his Baggins cousins had been inseparable ever since. At first Drogo and Otho had treated him normally, trying to pull him into hugs and wrestling and whatever other things they used to do as children, but Rory must have shouted at them, because one day they stopped, though they did not leave him alone. They gave him the space he needed, but stood close nearby, so that he knew he had their support.

To his surprise, Drogo and Otho had been rooming together in the same hall as Aunt Mira and her children, and when Uncle Gordy and Rory came home, they had befriended Rory quickly, because Rory had told them about Bilbo. All of them were orphans, the only Baggins boys left, and as the eldest, it was Bilbo's duty to make sure they were both taken care of. He made sure they were happy and comfortable, that they had proper clothes and linens, that their room had enough firewood, and anything else that he could do. In turn, they dragged him out of his room or the library or the nursery, the three places where he spent most of his time, to eat lunch or have a snowball fight or explore the oldest and dustiest of closets in the deepest parts of the Great Smials, along with Rory and sometimes Jago Boffin.

Knowing that his family was alive, that despite everything they had survived -- even though they had all lost their parents, aunts and uncles, and so many other relatives and friends -- it made Bilbo think everything would be okay. Even the rumors would pass, hopefully, and then perhaps he could return to the nursery and tell the children stories again. Perhaps tomorrow he would go to lunch with Drogo and Otho, and not be whispered about by the old busybodies at the next table...

Perhaps.

*

_"That's the one, the children keep talking about him --"_

_"I thought he just reads them stories in the evenings. Aunt Myrtle says he's really nice to them."_

_"No, you don't get it, he's a bad one. It's the Took in him, of course, they always were odd sorts --"_

_"Shh, you shouldn't say that, after the Thain himself took us in!"_

_"It's true though! He might be a Baggins, but that whole family has gone sour, I'm telling you. I heard Primrose Bracegirdle telling her cousin the other day that Otho Baggins is always getting into fights, and that Bilbo Baggins was one of those -- those goblin-servants, the **improper** kind. Someone said he liked to poison the others so he could keep his place --"_

_"No! But he's so polite! Should he be near the children?"_

_"I'm about to go talk to Myrtle myself --"_

*

It _hurt_ , so much. Yet he could not deny the accusations -- because Otho _was_ getting into fights a lot lately, and Bilbo _had_ been a slave, and worst of all, he _had_ poisoned some of his fellow Hobbits --

Why couldn't they _understand_ how hard it had been, living in that place --

They never would, though. Even though they had been attacked by Orcs themselves, the old gossipers would never understand despair as he and his fellow slaves did. If in fact they did understand it, they chose to deny it, resolutely believing in the old ways of nay-saying and propriety.

Bilbo sometimes wished he could yell at them that _nothing is proper anymore, you old cows_ \--

At the thought, Bilbo had to sigh and hide his face in his hands. Perhaps he had been spending too much time with Drogo, who had an oddly foul mouth for someone who had once believed so firmly in that old propriety.

He turned his gaze to the window. He had not visited Bofur in a while. The blizzard outside made it difficult, but of course there were other ways to visit, underground paths that connected most of the smials around here, though Bilbo doubted they were often used. No doubt the Dwarves, miners and cavers as they were, already knew about them, but something left Bilbo hesitant to visit his friend.

Perhaps it was because whenever he was with Bofur, he felt as at home as he did with Drogo, Otho, and Rory.

In the past several months, Bofur had become a fast friend. He was kind and cheerful every time Bilbo saw him, and the two of them could spend hours just talking, sharing stories about Erebor and the Shire. Bofur had told him all sorts of things about his family back at home, and in turn Bilbo had shared stories of his mother's adventures and his father's business dealings. They were good friends, and Bilbo was always glad to see him.

Lately, though, with these rumors popping up... he had avoided Bofur, out of shame. He had avoided his cousins and family too, at first, until Rory had dragged Otho and Drogo into his room and told them Bilbo was being thick-headed and stupid, which had spurred Bilbo into sputtering that Rory was the thick-headed one, and an epic fight had erupted that had burst three pillows and left his entire room a mess. 

He had not avoided his family after that. The rumor-mongering Hobbits, yes, but not his cousins or aunts or uncles. Bofur, though...

He did not want Bofur to hear of the rumors and look at him differently. He did not want any hint of what he had done to ruin their friendship. He especially did not want Bofur to return to Erebor in the spring and tell other Dwarves ( _like his king_ , Bilbo's mind thought traitorously) of Bilbo's darkness.

It was bad enough that the rumors had started in the first place. No doubt someone had been told of their relative's death and had questioned how, and someone had whispered _pain-bearer_ and pointed a finger at Bilbo. The truly horrible thing was --

It was all true. Bilbo was a murderer. He did not deserve to be here. He should be shunned and kicked out, and the fact that he desperately did not want to leave his home, his _family_ , made him feel all the more guilty, despite his actions and the accusing looks.

It hurt, to know that someone had told someone else of his actions. He did not know or care who had given him away, but it left a deep ache within him, to know that someone who could not understand knew of what he had done. The Hobbits here -- the ones who had never known torture at an Orc's hands -- would _never_ understand what had brought Bilbo to the decision to give the black mushrooms to those who would not survive. They would never understand the fear, the despair, the complete loss of hope and dignity -- they would never know how some of his fellow slaves had _begged_ him for help, had clung to his hands and chains and sobbed into the scars on his stomach and pleaded with him to give them death.

He did not want them to understand, either. He was glad that they did not know that pain, that there were still normal, proper Hobbits in the world, who muttered and gossiped and huffed and fretted like a Hobbit should. He did not want to defend himself; he knew he deserved to be shunned. It still _hurt_ , though.

Perhaps when Bofur left in the spring, Bilbo could ask to accompany him... Thorin had said that Erebor was open to Bilbo, anytime he wished to visit -- perhaps he could get a job in Erebor's library...

Bilbo drifted, soaking up the warmth from the fire and wondering about the future he still, sometimes, could not believe he had been given. If he could spare his fellow Hobbits the pain and anxiety his presence caused, then he would. Maybe Otho and Drogo would like to come with him for a while, see some of the world that they had always ignored before. A little Tookish adventure for them, before they found proper spouses and settled down.

Like Bilbo never would.

That was one thing he had noticed upon returning to the Shire. He no longer held any attraction toward anyone around him. Otho and Drogo, even Rory who had suffered beside him, along with the other young tweens and teens who had known destruction and pain, had begun to ease into normal relations with other Hobbits their age. Otho often made eyes at Evanthe Brown, and Rory had begun pinching the elbows of the Goold sisters (as well as their younger brother on occasion). Even Drogo eyed the girls sometimes, though he was usually more surreptitious about it.

Bilbo felt none of that. He felt absolutely nothing. No interest, no attraction, no flutterings in his chest -- and Bilbo had once known these feelings well, having flirted and kissed and teased quite a lot in the long and blissful years of his tweenhood. Azog had broken something in him, and he knew in his heart that he would never find the happiness that his mother and father had shared. 

He knew other Hobbits shared his pain, but some of them had spouses they could turn to, and others found comfort in their families.

For Bilbo, he found comfort in telling stories to the children, who always looked to him with awe and happiness. He had not visited them in a while, thanks to the gossipers, some of whom had children in the nursery, but he knew he should visit soon --

Because there were also children like him, who had been brutalized, who had been _pets_ to Orcs, as he had been to Azog. Not very many children, maybe six in all, but they were already known to be _different_ \-- quiet, solemn, with large dark eyes that shuttered if there were too many adults in the room. The other children gave them space and let them read their books and play with their toys alone in the corners, and Bilbo had made it a point to visit them several times a week and sit with them. He was one of the few adults they allowed close to them, other than the nannies who tucked them in and made sure they ate, and their parents if they still had them.

Perhaps enough time had passed that he could ask for a plate of cookies and visit them later. Someone had seen him last week, taking a bowl of apples and nuts (with permission from Aunt Linda) to the children, but he had not realized it and could not defend himself later from the accusations, as he had slept through dinner that night. Otho, Rory, and Drogo had defended him in his place, though, much to his amusement and horror when he had seen the bruises.

*

_Bilbo stared wide-eyed at Otho, who looked rather proud of himself for having a rather lurid black eye and blood under his nose. "You didn't," he whispered, and Otho grinned viciously. Bilbo looked pleadingly at Drogo. "You're two years older than him -- why didn't you stop him?" he asked furiously, and Drogo glared._

_"Because I threw the first punch, Bilbo. Couldn't let those Burrow sods get away with it, could I? Not with Bruno Bracegirdle's cow of a mum muttering like she was -- even that Lobelia girl was in on it!"_

_Otho started to grin, but at the mention of Lobelia, he turned a scowl on his older cousin. "Lobelia's been playing with Rory's sister Prim, you know, she's nothing like her mum --"_

_"She's **exactly** like her mum --"_

_Bilbo hid his face in his hands as the two began to argue loudly. Why did he have to be the eldest?_

*

It would be nice to sit with the children again. The nannies did not mind him, even encouraged him to visit frequently, and the children held no expectations of him, only asked him for stories and to play with them. Maybe when the snow stopped falling, they could go build a proper snow fort outside -- and he could easily convince the kids to take on Rory, Drogo, Otho, and Jago in a snow fight, who would be no match against thirty squealing Hobbit children and teenagers (no doubt the Brandybuck children would join in). Bofur would probably side with him if he pleaded nicely enough, too, and of course Prim would likely take the whole lot under command, so that she could defeat her brother.

Thinking of the lovely hot cider they could enjoy afterwards, Bilbo finally felt warm enough to drift off, dozing lightly for several minutes and imagining a silly winter afternoon with no rude neighbors or worrisome rumors, just the laughter of children and the joy of spending time with his family.

Not twenty minutes later, he was woken by a knock on the door.

Blinking, Bilbo shook the sleep out of his eyes and stared at the door for a long moment, confused. He crawled out of his quilt and walked over to the door, pulling it open slowly. Standing at the entrance to his room was his cousin Fortinbras, the current Thain of the Hobbits, and Bilbo's eyes widened at the sight of him. Had someone made another complaint? Was something wrong?

Fortinbras offered a smile, and Bilbo relaxed a bit, realizing that Fortinbras might just be visiting him as family and not as Thain.

"Fort, um, sorry -- I was napping... what can I do for you?" Bilbo asked, glancing past Fortinbras worriedly.

"Got some lunch before it was hauled off by that mess of tweens from Eastfarthing. Since I'm rather certain you didn't go near the meal hall this morning either..." Fortinbras held up the basket, and the smell of bacon and warm buttery quickbread filled the room. Bilbo blushed, and Fortinbras' smile widened. "Can we have a chat?"

Bilbo eyed him for a long moment, but soon enough he nodded and opened the door for Fortinbras, going to light the lamp. Fortinbras followed him in and closed the door, going to sit on the rug in front of the fire, and after a moment Bilbo went to join him, basking in the warmth. Fortinbras pulled the cloth off the basket and pushed it over to Bilbo, who hesitated just a moment before pulling out a bacon sandwich and biting into it with a deep sigh.

"Thanks," he said after swallowing, and Fortinbras gave him a smile.

"You're welcome, cousin. I know Aunt Mirabella and Aunt Rosa look after you, but I worry about you, too. We all do," Fortinbras said.

Bilbo smiled a bit, feeling happy for the words. Then he gave Fortinbras a somewhat wary look, after taking another bite of his sandwich. "So... you wanted to have a chat?"

Fortinbras nodded, but he made no move toward the scrolls he had placed at his side. "In time. Finish up those sandwiches first."

So Bilbo sat quietly with his cousin and ate three bacon sandwiches, surprised at himself as he had eaten that morning, but apparently the small bowl of porridge had not been enough. He washed his lunch down with a glass of water he kept on the table, and after rejoining Fortinbras, who had remained silent while he ate, his cousin picked up the two scrolls beside him and offered one to Bilbo. It was wrapped in a deep blue ribbon, and Bilbo recognized it immediately.

"That's from Thorin Oakenshield," he said quietly, and Fortinbras nodded.

"Go on and read it, and tell me what you think," he said, so Bilbo took the scroll and untied the silk ribbon, laying it at his feet and slowly unfurling the heavy paper. A beautiful script in Westron curled across the paper, and Bilbo reached up to touch the key underneath his shirt. Then he held up the scroll and began to read.

__

> _To the Thain of the Hobbits of the Shire,_
> 
> _I extend greetings and salutations on behalf of the Kingdom of Erebor, to the Thain and his kin and people. In these dark times, I hope to continue the alliance between our peoples, to the mutual benefit of both our realms._
> 
> _I have thought a great deal upon your travails in the months since my last letter to you. I understand that we are not yet friends, and that in these times you are wary. Despite what has befallen your people, I wish to offer a solution to your plight._
> 
> _To the East of the Misty Mountains, there lies a valley, lush with life and good land. It situates around the River Anduin, beside the forests of Greenwood, a few weeks' walking distance from Erebor. In the North of this valley lives a Northman named Beorn, who guards the valley and nearby Greenwood from orcs, and sends to Erebor any news. He has been our ally for years, and together with him and the elves of Greenwood, we have kept the North and Western portions of Greenwood free of dark creatures._
> 
> _When I sent news of the Shire's fall to Beorn, he responded with an offer: come to Anduin Valley. I am like-minded in this venture; the location could benefit the ties between your people and my people greatly. As my carriers have surely told you, I am on a quest to purge the Misty Mountains of orcs and reclaim it for my people, as it was once our home a thousand years ago. With this letter delivered, I am pleased to announce success in this march._
> 
> _In the coming years, as my people return to Khazad-dûm and the Misty Mountains to rebuild, we will need aid and assistance. The Kingdom of Erebor has a partnership with the nearby city of Dale, belonging to men, in that the farmers and agriculturalists of Dale will provide Erebor with produce and meat, and Erebor in turn will provide aid and protection, as well as priority trade rights to some of our ores._
> 
> _I and the other leaders of the Dwarf clans wish to offer the same partnership with the Hobbits, should you come to live nearer to the Misty Mountains. The valley of Anduin has land aplenty for agriculture, and I have heard that Hobbits are great farmers and producers of fine food. Past what you require to feed your people, I would ask that you sell your produce and goods to the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, and in return we will grant protection alongside the watchful eye of Beorn, as well as some rights to our ores and wares._
> 
> _There are some rules to living in Beorn's land, but they are few, and I have heard enough of Hobbits to believe that these will be little trouble. Namely, not to hunt or kill any animals that live there with the exception of fish, and to pay respect to the land._
> 
> _I have chosen to winter in the halls of Khazad-dûm, and in the spring we will return to Erebor. If you have any need of assistance, do not hesitate to send any request with Bofur, who accompanied the carrier of this letter to you. When spring comes, he will return to the Misty Mountains, to join us as we return home._
> 
> _I hope to see a greater partnership between our peoples in the future. To you and your kin, I offer again friendship and alliance, and as ever,_
> 
> _I have the honor to remain,_  
>  _Thorin Oakenshield_  
>  _Son of Thráin, son of Thrór_  
>  _King under the Mountain_

Beneath the last line of Thorin's titles, there were a few more lines, written more hastily than the others, and Bilbo's cheeks turned pink when he read them.

> _
> 
> Please regard Bilbo Baggins, the carrier of this letter, as a great hero, for he saved my life and did many great things for my people in the final battle of this war march. I have named him Dwarf-friend for his great and honorable actions. My people and I would welcome him to Erebor, should you wish to send an ambassador for your people.
> 
> _

He sat there for a long moment, rereading the elegant script and thinking of what Thorin had said to him all those months ago. More than ever, he felt the desire to go to Erebor and see Thorin again -- but he knew he was not ready, emotionally or otherwise. He could barely stand to be in the same room as the majority of the people in the Great Smials, let alone a mountain of Dwarves. He hardly felt like himself, for all that he had been through, and he wondered if he would ever properly heal.

The idea of going to the old Vale, though... it had promise. A new place, with good land and a river full of fish, near a beautiful forest of legend? He liked the idea. He also rather liked what Thorin proposed, that the Hobbits create a business partnership with the Dwarves. Though he hesitated at ever returning to the Misty Mountains, he knew it would be a good thing for the Hobbits, to leave this place of death and go somewhere new -- and truly, somewhere they had been before, once a very long time ago. He knew the old legends as well as any Hobbit.

After a time he looked up at Fortinbras and smiled, and Fortinbras' eyes warmed. His cousin had lit his pipe while Bilbo was reading, and the scent of Old Toby filled the room, making Bilbo yearn briefly for a good smoke. He had no pipe of his own, though he had recovered his father's pipe, from the ruins of Bag-End many months ago.

*

_Two weeks after his return to the Shire, Otho and Drogo convinced him to go to Hobbiton and look through Bag-End, to see if anything was salvageable. They went together with Aunt Linda leading all three, and Bilbo felt his heart seize in his chest when he saw the door with its deep scratches. He pushed it open slowly and looked down, only to see a dark stain on the floor._

_His father had fallen there._

_Aunt Linda's expression tightened, but she pulled Bilbo deeper into the torn home, holding up a lantern. Everything was broken, torn, scratched -- the pantry had been emptied long ago, the good cushions and blankets sent on to the Great Smials when Aunt Linda had taken control of Bag-End._

_Aunt Linda had not lingered long in the once beautiful home, too sad over her brother's death. She had not cleaned the mess, only taken what was still useful and moved on, and Bilbo did not blame her for it. He might have done the same, but now they had the time, so they went into the sitting room where he used to read stories to his parents in the evening._

_Beside the fireplace, beneath a pile of broken wood, Bilbo found his father's pipe, and on the floor by the door, his mother's garden hat, somewhat crushed._

_Bilbo stood there and stared at the items in his hands for what felt like hours, until Otho came up to him muttering about how he was being silly, and that he needed a chest to carry everything. So Bilbo shook himself out of his reverie and followed Otho to the next room._

_The four of them picked through the house carefully, finding what was left, and each item gave Bilbo a rush of memories, of fond times when he had been **happy**._

_No more._

_A glance into the kitchen -- what pots and pans that remained were broken or bent, but Bilbo saw two cups sitting in the far corner of one of the window sills, unbroken. He took the cups and tucked them into his pockets, and walked on._

_Some of his books had not been burnt. His closet full of bright, colorful clothes -- given away to other Hobbits, though Aunt Linda promised that some might be given back to him. Aunt Linda herself had his mother's favorite quilt, and she would give it to Bilbo._

_Going into their bedroom had been the worst. It had been untouched by the violence, and it still smelled of them, of his father's pipeweed and the flowers his mother would bring inside every day. He found a dusty green coat hanging on the closet door -- his father's. He took it and pulled it on, and though Otho gave him a bewildered look, Bilbo refused to take it off for the rest of the day._

_He had nothing else of them, except memories and these broken treasures. Everything he could keep, everything he could carry away with him, he would take, no matter how silly it seemed. They were his **parents** , and he missed them so, so much._

*

Bilbo shook the thoughts of his parents' lost home out of his mind and looked down at the scroll.

"Thorin's idea... I think it is a good one. I think... we need to leave this place, in order to start anew. Thorin, he's... he's already done so much for us. It astonishes me that he wants to do this, too. But it would be something good. I think so, anyway," Bilbo said, and Fortinbras nodded.

"I believe so as well. The older ones, you know how they are, they don't want to leave, think we can just plant some more seeds and everything will be fine. But out there?" Fortinbras lifted his pipe and pointed at the window, past the curtains and into the grey outside. "Everything is dead, Bilbo. Crops won't grow out there. All our good memories of this place... they're ruined by that day. I know not everyone will want to go, but I think, for the good of everybody, that we have to go."

Fortinbras pulled out the other scroll and unrolled it across the floor, revealing a map of the continent. He pointed out the space that Thorin had spoken of, circling it with his finger. "This is the old Vale, and it'd be a long journey... we'd have to go through the Misty Mountains, which a lot of folks would be hesitant to do. But it'd be a safe place, with the Dwarves and that Beorn looking out for us, and even Elves live in the woods nearby, from some kingdom up north."

Bilbo nodded slowly, watching the white-grey of the snow swirling outside. Though it had been years since Shirefall, apparently there was not often sunlight anymore, more often clouds and grey rain. Little had grown, as his cousins had told him, and what did grow was hardly any good. They had only survived this winter so far based on the stores bought from faraway cities of Men.

He looked over the map, drawing a finger from the Shire to the Anduin River, and sighed deeply. "What are you going to do?" Bilbo asked after a moment, and Fortinbras frowned.

"I've talked about it with some of the older folk, and they've requested that we wait a bit, see what spring brings. Some of the better farmers tried something new with the land, but I've got my doubts... though, who knows? When spring comes, we will wait, and if it's worked, then we'll discuss everything again. And if it hasn't worked... then I'll call all the Hobbits to Tuckborough for a great meeting and give everyone the chance to shout about it."

Bilbo snorted, imagining the great shouting that would occur at such a meeting. He glanced longingly at Fortinbras' pipe, and Fortinbras chuckled and passed it over. Bilbo brightened, and he gladly took a long suck of the heady smoke, sighing it out slowly.

"I guess we'll see what happens when the snow melts, then," Bilbo said, thinking of green pastures and bright sunlight, already dreaming of a new life in a new place.

For a while they passed the pipe between each other, until the embers ran out. Fortinbras knocked the ashes into the hearth, then sat back and gave Bilbo a considering look.

"Bilbo," he said, drawing Bilbo's attention. "I don't like how you've been avoiding meals. Aunt Mira's told me that you go get breakfast and supper after everyone else, but not all the time. As your cousin and the head of the Took family now, I can't let you miss meals any longer. The gossipers are just old busybodies. It's winter, and they're bored. Ignore them, and it'll pass. Starting tonight, I want you to come to every meal, okay? Sit with Rory and your Baggins cousins if you want, but come anyway. If you don't, I'll drag you in myself and make you sit with Great Aunt Aldadrida for every meal until the snow melts," he said, fixing Bilbo with a stern look.

Bilbo glanced at his cousin with wide eyes, but he slowly nodded, feeling sheepish and anxious at the same time. "Are you sure? I don't want to cause trouble," he started, but Fortinbras only increased his glower.

"You're my cousin, and a Took to boot, even if Aunt Belladonna did marry a Baggins. You're more welcome at my table than any of those old bats, and if they don't like it, they can shut themselves up in their rooms instead. Aunt Mirabella's already scolded me four times about it, and it doesn't make me feel good to be scolded like a fauntling because some old gaffer's got an opinion about something! You're coming to dinner tonight, and you're going to stop avoiding everyone, just because some people are being rude," Fortinbras finished with a flourish, and Bilbo felt his cheeks turn pink again.

He did not want to say yes, because he did not believe he deserved this... but he could not deny his family anything. Slowly he nodded, and Fortinbras looked somewhat mollified. "Alright," Bilbo said quietly, and he gave his cousin a smile. "Tonight, I'll come to dinner, I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hobbits. That's really all I have to say. 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and fanarts! Cover by [milkbubble](http://milkbubble.tumblr.com). :3
> 
> You can also read the deleted scene [The Party Tree](http://archiveofourown.org/works/968907/chapters/1902617).


	18. Too much to bear alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning** : This is a very emotional chapter. It has triggers for bullying, torture, rape, and sexual abuse. So please read with caution.

For the first time in what was probably weeks, as he did not truly remember how long it had been, Bilbo walked into the massive dining hall at the center of the Great Smials while it was full of nearly all of the Hobbits that lived there. Otho walked in front of him and Rory followed behind closely, with the insurance of knowing they were allowed drag Bilbo by his ears with the Thain's blessing if he tried to run away. Bilbo paused in the doorway when several Hobbits hushed, but Rory shoved him forward, and he heard a squeal of delight from one of the tables.

"Bilbo!" Primula called, and despite Aunt Mirabella reaching automatically to grab her, she squirmed out of her seat and ran to meet them, throwing her arms around Bilbo's waist. He softened despite himself, reaching down to pat her soft curls and giving her a smile.

"Hello, Prim. Did you save me a seat?" he asked, and Primula beamed, but Rory cut off her reply.

"Sorry, Prim, he's sitting with the _adults_ tonight. Go back to mama," Rory said while turning up his nose, giving another push to Bilbo's back.

"As if you're an adult," Primula shot back, and a noise like a snort escaped Bilbo, making Rory pinch him.

"Go on, Prim, you have to sit with mama tonight," Rory said, frowning at his sister.

"But I haven't seen Bilbo in _forever_! Not fair, Rory!" Primula cried.

Primula clung all the harder to Bilbo's waist, refusing to let go even as Rory prodded Bilbo across the room, unconcerned with the eyes that followed them -- and Bilbo was somewhat relieved to realize that most of the Hobbits in the room paid him no mind. Otho rolled his eyes and shared a look with Drogo, who seemed to be pretending that Primula was not there.

Drogo's gaze darkened when he noticed the looks of one table, leaning in to Otho. "Bruno's mum is giving us the evil eye. Looks like his nose isn't healing right," he said quietly, smirking, and Bilbo twitched.

"Don't look at them," he started tightly, but then Rory was pushing him onto a seat at one of the emptier tables, and Primula quickly climbed up beside Bilbo. Rory gave her an exasperated look.

"I'm sitting with Bilbo," Primula announced, and Bilbo held back a sigh.

"Don't fight about it," he said to Rory, frowning at him, and Rory groaned but sat down across from Bilbo, along with Otho, while Drogo took his other side. Amaranth, Rory's younger sister, came over with two plates, and she gave Bilbo a smile as she set one in front of Primula.

"Good to see you, cousin," she said lightly, and Bilbo managed a smile as she sat down. Then Otho was grumbling about Drogo taking all the carrots, while Rory made a face at Primula, and Bilbo wondered if his cousins would ever grow up. Then he hoped that they would never change, no matter how old they became.

It was strange to sit here, even though three weeks ago it would have been perfectly normal. He felt nervous, as if everybody was staring at him when he was not looking, but every time he peeked up, nobody was watching him. Yet he felt attention all the same, and it made him rather anxious. 

Maybe he should go -- but no, his cousins had dragged him here and would refuse to let him leave, and Fortinbras had all but ordered him to be here in the first place, and he did owe it to his family -- to pretend, for a little while, to be normal...

All of the noise in the room was bothering him. He managed to ignore it, though, beginning to pile food on his plate, looking forward to a hot meal with his family. 

Primula kept up an energetic conversation at his side, telling him all about her lessons and playtime, and Bilbo barely had to speak, only humming in agreement or saying, "That's quite fascinating, Prim," in between bites. Primula had always taken a strong liking to him, even when she was just a baby, and he adored her. If he ever had children, he would want them to be like Prim --

The thought shocked him. Children? When would he ever have children? Who would possibly marry him, after everything that he had done? Primula's chatter faded to the background, and Bilbo felt cold, a deep loneliness filling him, despite being surrounded by the warmth and love of his family. How could he have forgotten? He was not normal. He would never have a normal relationship, a normal love, a normal _anything_ \-- he was the _pain-bearer_. There was no _normal_ in his future.

"Bilbo?"

Bilbo looked down to see Primula watching him worriedly, and he realized that most of his cousins had quieted as well. He looked up and smiled, patting Primula on the head. "I'm alright, Prim. Go on, tell me more about your lesson from last week," he said, and Primula brightened and began talking again.

Amaranth and Otho went back to their meals, but Drogo stared at him suspiciously, and Rory had a dark look to his eyes, as if he knew what Bilbo was thinking.

Rory puzzled him sometimes. In Azog's halls, he had acted much like he had before Shirefall, playful and cheerful when they believed they were alone, but he had also responded the fiercest whenever an Orc came to visit the slaves. Bilbo knew that Rory had been punished for his actions, too, even by Azog himself, but still Rory had looked up at him with a smile the next day, despite the bruises on his face and the careful way he held himself.

It amazed him how easily Rory had settled back into 'normal' Hobbit reactions, and yet sometimes Rory would get that look on his face, with a darkness and anger that Bilbo had rarely seen.

Probably Rory had refused to let Bilbo see it, to keep both of them from falling apart. Maybe pretending to be _normal_ was as hard for Rory as it was for Bilbo.

Bilbo's smile faded a little. He gave Rory an apologetic look, and Rory's expression softened a bit. Despite the age difference between them, Rory was his best friend, and Bilbo hated upsetting him. So he tried, despite his anxiety, to have a normal dinner with his family, and for a time, he managed quite well.

Unfortunately for Bilbo, _normal_ for Hobbits included one of their favorite pastimes: gossip. As with any gossip, it began with a whisper.

"He's come back. Done snitching from the kitchens, then?"

"Shh, he's right there!"

Bilbo tensed, his eyes widening, and Rory looked up sharply, turning to glare over his shoulder. The whispers hushed, but Bilbo felt like crying at the unfairness of it all. He had taken that food for the children -- with permission! Myrtle Burrows could tell them -- but he noticed that Myrtle was not at dinner, likely looking after the children who refused to eat with everyone else.

A few moments passed, and nobody else whispered about Bilbo, carrying on their conversations as normal. So Bilbo cautiously began to eat again, murmuring in response to Primula's chatter, holding himself tense as he waited. The rumors had not stopped -- and he knew they would start whispering about him again.

And there, another whisper, though this one was hardly soft enough to be counted as such.

"It's shameful to let someone like him in a place like this! Shouldn't they take that little girl away?"

Rory and Otho stood at the same time, whirling around to glare at the room, but before they could say anything, Primula said very loudly, "And you know what, Bilbo, when we get married, we are going to have a beautiful Baggins boy, and he's going to have your blue eyes and my blonde curls!"

Bilbo stared wide-eyed down at Primula, who took another bite of carrots serenely as if half the hall was not staring at them. Then a girl at the table where the whispers had come from began giggling, and an older woman hushed her immediately, but already several Hobbits were chuckling and turning back to their meals.

Bilbo felt a sudden, strong fondness for his cousin, a small chuckle escaping him, though his heart beat loudly in his chest. "Prim, dear heart, you know we cannot get married... we're cousins," he said, feeling a little sad.

Primula pouted, and Rory and Otho slowly sat down, looking bewildered. "But I want to marry a Baggins! They're the best family next to us Brandybucks and Tooks, and I can't marry any of them -- they're all my cousins, too!"

Bilbo smiled feebly. "Sorry, Prim... I'm the only Baggins boy you cannot marry," he said quietly.

Primula sighed deeply and looked past Bilbo at Drogo, scrutinizing him slowly and making Drogo look very nervous. "I suppose there are other Baggins boys to consider," she said appraisingly, and Bilbo ducked his head to hide a smile, as he saw Otho stiffen across the table.

Amaranth was shaking her head beside Primula. "Primula, love, you are too young to think about marriage. Let the Baggins boys grow up, and think about it later, alright? Come on, eat your supper," she said.

Primula pouted and looked at her potatoes with a sulk. "I really wish it was Bilbo, though, so I could be his pain-bearer," she said, and immediately all eyes were on her, while Bilbo felt himself freeze up at hearing that word from the mouth of someone who knew nothing of what it meant.

"Primula," he whispered, and Primula looked up at him with a frown. Rory stared at her with wide eyes, and Otho and Drogo held themselves very still, while at the other table, where the whispers had come from, those who were listening grew silent, to hear better.

"It's true! If you're the pain-bearer for everyone else, someone has to be the pain-bearer for you, and I want to be it! I would be a good pain-bearer," Primula said, her voice getting louder, and Bilbo reached up to hold her shoulder, shaking his head already.

"Prim, _no_. You can't -- I won't let you do something like that," he started, but Primula looked fierce for a moment, reminding him of Rory.

"But you're so sad all the time! It's not right, because you used to be so happy, and then you were taken away, and you came back so sad! I want to make you happy again, Bilbo, you're my favorite cousin and I love you!" Primula said, nearly shouting, making something burn in Bilbo's throat for a moment.

Across the table, Rory took a deep breath as if to calm himself, and Bilbo felt the same shuddering breath escape him. "Prim, you can't... be a pain-bearer, not like Bilbo," Rory said very quietly. Primula glared at him, but Rory held up his hands. "It's not what you think it is," he said, but Primula was already speaking, her curls bouncing as she sat up.

"It's for someone who makes other people happier, isn't it? When they are sad, you take away their sadness, right? I want to be that person for Bilbo! Why can't I?" she asked, and Bilbo reached down to take her hand, catching her attention, his chest aching at how simple she made it sound.

"Primula," he said seriously, and Primula quieted, watching him. "Just being with you makes me happy, okay? Don't talk about," he swallowed briefly, "the pain-bearer business anymore, okay? Just be yourself, that's all I ask." He leaned down to kiss Primula's forehead, and Primula looked upset for a moment, but then she nodded.

"Okay," she said quietly, and Bilbo and Rory both breathed a sigh of relief. Drogo, Otho, and Amaranth all watched them silently, a suspicion in their gazes, but Bilbo avoided looking at his cousins and tried to focus on his meal again. If he could finish his meal, then he could escape without repercussion, and he could spend the rest of the evening in his room, where he could be alone. He just had to make it through this meal without anything else happening.

It was not to be. Their conversation had caught the attention of many other people in the room, some looking very sad, and others looking sour. Bilbo glanced up to see the woman who had hushed the girl earlier glaring at him, which chilled him.

"Shameful," she said, and the little girl beside her tried to shush her, looking nervous. With a shock Bilbo realized that this was Bruno Bracegirdle's mother, and the girl beside her often played with Primula -- Primrose and Lobelia.

"What nonsense," Primrose Bracegirdle continued, ignoring her daughter and glaring at Bilbo, who could not move. "Letting that goblin-servant around young, impressionable children! Pain-bearer? More like murderer --"

Rory's expression twisted. Bilbo made an abrupt movement to shush him, his eyes wide, but Rory slammed his hands down on the table and jumped up, already furious.

"Don't say that word like you understand it!" he shouted, and Bilbo felt something hot rush to his stomach. 

_No,_ he thought, _don't you dare --_

But Rory would not be silenced. "Don't you _dare_ talk about Bilbo like you know what he went through, what _any_ of us went through," he hissed, glaring at Primrose Bracegirdle, while the entire hall went silent. Several of the Hobbits, all former slaves, went white as they realized what Rory was saying.

"You don't know what it was like living in that place! You don't know what we went through -- _every day_ \-- thinking it was going to be the last one! Every single day, we didn't know if we would survive, because every day, the goblins came in and decided whether they wanted to eat us, or beat us, or make us do horrible things -- and you will _never_ understand our pain!" Rory shouted, and not a single person said a word, their eyes wide.

"We weren't _goblin-servants_ , like you would even understand what that means," Rory sneered. "We were SLAVES! They kept us to EAT! They kept us and took us out to play with, they made us _fight each other_ , they hurt us and beat us and _raped_ us! And that was when we were not dragged out to be their dinner! 

"Every day, every single day we were afraid to wake up and find out they would do to us next. But -- we were the lucky ones," Rory said, his gaze shifting to his cousin, and Bilbo felt the blood drain from his face.

Bilbo could not breathe. _No,_ he thought, staring desperately at Rory, begging him not to say anything else, _Please don't tell them --_

"We call him _pain-bearer_ because Bilbo got the worst of it, of any of us," Rory said, not taking his eyes from Bilbo's face. "Because every night, Bilbo had to stay with that white goblin, and every day he came back to us bleeding and bruised and hurting, and he said it was _nothing_ , and he would smile and sit with us and all the while he was _suffering_. Because," Rory said, a sharp laugh escaping him, and Bilbo started to shake his head, but Rory was not done. "Because Bilbo _protected_ us, every day -- he got our master so angry that Azog would forget about us and beat Bilbo up. _Every single day_ \--" and Rory had to take a deep breath, getting red in the face from his anger.

Bilbo reached slowly up to his neck, finding the outline of his necklace and holding on tightly to the key and rings, feeling some dark urge to disappear in the back of his mind, to vanish and run from this place and never look back -- but he could not, not while Rory was looking at him.

"And none of you can ever understand what it was like for us," Rory said, looking away from Bilbo and glaring at the hall, at the faces of the Hobbits who had never known the pain of being a slave. "You can be mad all you want that someone you loved died -- but don't get mad at us for it! Don't get mad at Bilbo, because he tried the hardest of any of us to keep us alive, and if he could not save someone, then he made sure that they died quietly -- instead of being eaten alive by a goblin!

"I'm _sorry_ that everyone is dead -- I know you all feel it, how sorry... how _sad_ , how _angry_ we all are. But us slaves, it's not like we killed someone so that we could live -- we had no control over it, over living or dying! But we made it anyway -- and we did not come back here just so you could gossip and whisper about how horrible we are, how we should not be alive because someone you loved is dead! 

" _All_ of us lost someone, all of us have scars and nightmares about what happened. We watched so many Hobbits die there, and we were so _scared_ , that we were going to be next -- and all the while Bilbo tried to make sure that we got food and water -- he tried to keep the goblins from paying attention to us -- he tried to help us, so that we could _survive_!"

Rory waved a hand wildly, growing angrier as he shouted, "So leave him alone, you nasty, horrible --"

But Rory was cut off when Bilbo stood and pressed a hand over his mouth, his entire body trembling. "That's enough," Bilbo whispered, and Rory stared at him, the fury abruptly fading when he saw the look on Bilbo's face. Slowly Bilbo let go of him, and Rory looked across the room, seeing in the expressions of his fellow Hobbits shock, anger, fear -- and sadness, such sadness, because none of them had known. 

Not a single Hobbit, who had lived as a slave and survived, had ever talked about their pain before.

Many of the Hobbits in the hall were crying silently. Some whispered, "Is it true?" and someone would nod their head, and soon nearly everybody was crying. Dinner was forgotten, and even those Hobbits who had whispered and pointed fingers were shaking and weeping, shocked by the truth that they had refused to see. Primrose Bracegirdle had gone white, and beside her, Lobelia was crying, looking at Bilbo and Primula with shock. 

Slowly Bilbo and Rory sat down again. Bilbo stared down at his plate and held himself tightly, the pain from digging his nails into his palms so strong that he could not feel his hands anymore, while his vision grew blurry --

And then small hands reached up to touch his face, wiping the tears from his eyes, and Bilbo blinked through the wetness and looked over to see Primula looking up at him. She gave him a solemn look, then pushed him back and climbed up into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him. Bilbo felt another arm wrap around his shoulder -- Drogo. Across the table Rory muttered, "I'm sorry, Bilbo," and Bilbo hid his face in Primula's soft curls, a sob shaking his body. Drogo's arm tightened around him. Amaranth moved closer and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Above the soft sounds of weeping, Bilbo heard someone say, "We didn't know."

Someone said, "Nobody ever told us."

Then someone said, "We're sorry." And someone else said it, and then again, and Hobbits were turning to each other and hugging their spouses, their siblings, their cousins, their friends -- because everyone had suffered, no matter how much they had pretended. Everyone had lost someone to Shirefall. Not a single Hobbit in that room had let themselves face their pain, had instead pushed it deep inside them, wanting to live in denial -- but they could not pretend anymore.

The pain was too much for anyone to bear alone.

Soon, though, as Hobbits could not be anything but Hobbits, the scents of dinner drew their attention again, and everybody slowly returned to eating, the hall quiet, but the air was not heavy anymore, no longer stiff, as if crying had released the tension. Not every Hobbit was relaxed, though, still shocked that the details of their dark past had been revealed in such a way, some shaking in memory -- but no one left the hall.

Bilbo felt the overwhelming urge to disappear. Several times he made movements as if to stand, but Drogo's arm would tighten and Primula would press further into his arms, and Bilbo realized that his family was refusing to let him run away and hide again. So he gathered what bit of courage he had left and lifted his head, not looking up at the people around him, but focusing on his plate. Primula shifted so that they could both see the table, and despite the awkward position, they both began to eat again.

Bilbo barely tasted anything. He could only think, _they know now,_ but he could feel his family pressing in around him, supporting him silently. His cousins, protective and watchful, making sure he ate and refusing to let him be hurt again.

But this -- telling everybody what he had done, even without the details... he could barely handle it.

When he was finished eating, Primula remained in his lap, and she refused to let him move until every one of their cousins had finished their meals as well. Only then did Primula slide off his lap, but she kept a death grip on his hand, holding onto him tightly as he stood. Rory immediately moved to his side as Bilbo headed toward the door, wanting nothing more than to leave, and Bilbo realized that his other cousins were following them.

At the door, they were stopped by Lobelia Bracegirdle, who exchanged a look with Primula before looking up at Bilbo. "I'm sorry for what my mother said," she said quietly, looking a bit sour, but Bilbo could see the earnestness in her expression. Beside him, Primula beamed, and Lobelia smiled back at her.

Bilbo did not smile, but he nodded to Lobelia, saying, "Thank you," before walking past her. Primula waved at Lobelia before following Bilbo, and Bilbo sighed at the thought of trying to get rid of his cousins, who would no doubt want to stick close to him for a while.

Thankfully, Rory took care of that problem for him.

When they reached Bilbo's door, Rory turned to frown at their cousins, prying Primula's hand from Bilbo's and pushing the door open.

"I have to talk to Bilbo alone," he said, shoving Bilbo into the room and closing the door immediately, despite Primula's and Drogo's immediate protests. He locked the door, and Bilbo gave him a look before walking over to light his oil lamp, then crossing his arms tightly.

Rory walked over to the window, peering outside at the snow, then back at Bilbo, who ignored him. He did not look forward to the row they would have, but he was desperate to get it over so he could be alone.

"Bilbo," Rory started, then faltered, as Bilbo's expression tightened. "Bilbo," he tried again, more softly, but Bilbo shook his head abruptly.

"Don't," he said sharply, and Rory frowned.

"You heard them going on about you," he shot back, waving his arm in the exact same angry gesture as earlier that evening. "Calling you nasty names, saying those horrible things behind your back -- I couldn't stand it! They have no right, talking about you like that --"

"And you had no right to tell them any of it!" Bilbo interrupted, whirling about to glare at his cousin. "Anyone who wasn't a slave -- they will never understand us, they will always judge us, and I don't care if they do, Rory! I just wanted it to -- to fade away, to disappear. I didn't want anybody to know!"

Rory stepped forward, his hands fisting at his sides. "So it _is_ okay for them to talk about you like you are some, some kind of tramp, like you _wanted_ all that to happen -- like it was your choice? It's not fair, Bilbo, and I'm sorry I said it the way I did, but I'm not sorry I said it! I was protecting you!"

"Well, I don't need your protection, Rory, I'm doing just fine on my own," Bilbo snapped back, and Rory's eyes narrowed.

"Like you've done so far, skipping meals and hiding in here? Like you did back in Azog's halls, when every day you would walk in with another bruise from him beating you --"

Bilbo shook his head quickly, his gaze darting to the door, knowing that their family was standing outside, no doubt trying to listen. "Don't," he whispered, but Rory gave him such a glare that Bilbo's mouth shut automatically.

"They should know what happened! They've been watching out for you just as I have, Bilbo. Just because they weren't there doesn't mean they won't understand it. Let us _help_ ," Rory said, stepping closer to Bilbo and reaching up to grip his forearms. "You have shouldered this pain for so long, and it is _killing_ you -- you're wasting away here! We've lost enough Hobbits already, okay? Great Aunt Adaldrida is dying, and our aunts and uncles are gone -- and you're my _best friend_ ," and Rory's voice broke, but Bilbo could not meet his eyes. "I cannot lose you, too," Rory whispered.

Oh, it hurt to fight with Rory like this, but the panic in his chest had not faded, the wild energy of the argument seizing him still. One thing Rory had said shocked him, though. "Great Aunt Adaldrida?" he whispered, his eyes wide.

Rory's expression crumpled. "Yeah," he said heavily, "she has the cough, the one from the goblin caves. She says she is fine, but everyone knows that it's..." Then he paused, looking up at Bilbo. "You mean you didn't know?"

Bilbo felt a flash of white-hot shame. "I hadn't... I haven't seen her in a while," he said, thinking of their great aunt, who was not his aunt by blood, but through many generations of marriage between Bagginses and Bolgers -- and through their shared experience in Azog's halls, where they became family out of necessity and choice. Adaldrida Brandybuck had kept him, Rory, and Uncle Gorbadoc together during those long years. She had taken Bilbo and the others under her wing to protect and look after, and she had been the unofficial leader of the Hobbits in that hall, when Bilbo had not been around.

To know that she was dying of the grey cough, a disease that many older Hobbits had died of in Moria's caves from the fungus and dust in the air, broke Bilbo's heart, and he had to hide his face as his eyes grew wet. He felt Rory cross the room and reach up to grip his shoulders, and a small sob escaped him. Rory held him for a little while, until he managed to control his tears and pull back, noticing that Rory's eyes were wet as well.

"I don't want them to know," he tried feebly, and Rory sighed, gripping Bilbo's shoulders.

"I think you need to tell them, some of it anyway," he said, glancing at the door. Bilbo followed his gaze, and he sighed to see several shadows beneath the door, obviously their cousins waiting for them to stop arguing. No doubt they had heard quite a bit of their shouting, too.

"But what?" Bilbo asked, pulling away and going to the fire, rubbing at his stomach, feeling the scar beneath the cloth, his gaze darkening.

"How can I possibly tell them anything of what happened? What can I say? That I poisoned my fellow Hobbits, that I was raped every night, that I begged Azog to beat me and hurt me, in exchange for leaving you all alone? Should I tell them about the black mushrooms? Should I tell them about what the Orcs would do, how they would take Hobbits to be eaten by cave trolls and wargs? How they would pick someone and drag them out in the middle of the hall and eat them right there?"

He turned sharply and glared at Rory, who looked very pale. "What should I tell them, Rory? Should I show them my scars, all the marks from being clawed and whipped and lashed? Have you shown them yours?" he said, and Rory flinched but frowned back at him.

"Don't you dare, Bilbo," he hissed, and Bilbo felt something shutter in his chest. "My parents know, and it's not like the others haven't guessed! I share a room with my brothers, you know! They've already seen it all," he said, putting his hands on his hips and glaring.

"This is about you and your Baggins cousins, because they've been in the dark all this time, and I've had to keep them from being too rough with you," Rory said, and Bilbo's mouth fell open.

"Rough with me?" he sputtered, but Rory talked over him, his voice growing louder.

"For all you Bagginses used to believe in being proper, Otho and Drogo are as rough as a couple of Tooks! They look up to you, you know, you're the only Baggins man around anymore, and they have no one else -- so they want to wrestle with you and roll around like boys do! But you are _terrified_ of that, I know you are, and I knew it upset you when they grabbed you, so I had to shout at them about it -- but they still don't understand, Bilbo. They can't -- it's not in their hearts to know that pain. They think you should be over it! You need to tell them that you're not!" Rory shouted, and Bilbo felt the stubbornness of his Tookish side set in, scowling.

"I'm not telling them anything," he said darkly, but then the door banged open, and Drogo rushed in, Otho following closely behind him. Bilbo faltered, his eyes wide, terrified for a moment that they had heard him. Thankfully, Primula was nowhere in sight; Amaranth must have taken her back to their room.

"Maybe we want to know, have you thought of that, Bilbo Baggins?" Drogo shouted, and Bilbo pushed past him and shut the door, huffing and shooting a glare at his cousins, past caring what they thought of him.

"Don't shout where the whole hall can hear you," he said, and Drogo rolled his eyes, while Otho scowled.

"Bilbo --"

"No," Bilbo said loudly, turning to glare at his cousins, fed up with all of them. "I'm _not_ talking about this. Not tonight. I'm not ready -- I cannot even think about it, let alone _tell you_ anything. I'll -- I will tell you another time, just -- just not now. I can't deal with it --"

" _Bilbo_ ," Otho interrupted, looking sour, and Bilbo shut his mouth. "We already _heard it_ , outside. Amaranth had to take Prim back to her room when you two started shouting, but both of us heard it, alright? We know," he finished quietly, as Bilbo was staring at him with wide eyes, looking thunderstruck.

"You, you _heard_ \--"

Drogo walked over to Bilbo and grabbed his shoulders, and Bilbo tensed in shock, looking at his dark-haired cousin numbly. Drogo's grip wavered before tightening, but his gaze was serious, fierce, yet so sad at the same time.

"Bilbo," Drogo said quietly, "you've been suffering every day for years, and Otho and I can't let it go on anymore. You're _home_ now, with us, and we are not going to leave you. No matter what terrible things you've done, or how dark your thoughts grow, or how fiercely you push us away, we won't leave you. The three of us haven't always seen eye to eye," he said, glancing back at Otho who grimaced. "But we're family, and Bagginses take care of each other," he continued, looking back at Bilbo and shaking him a bit, making Bilbo gasp.

"But the things I've done --"

"We don't care, you silly sod!" Drogo said, shaking him again, and Bilbo let out a sob.

"But what if -- what if I want to leave this place, what if I go far away? You can't follow me then, you both hate traveling --"

"We'd do it," Otho said fiercely, coming to stand beside them and putting his hand on Bilbo's arm. "You're all we have. If you want to go -- go cavort with Elves or Dwarves or whatever other strange creatures there are in this land, we will follow, we'll go on any Tookish adventure you want to have." 

Bilbo shook his head, tears falling down his cheeks, and he reached up to wipe them, breathing in shakily. "But you two, you're supposed to be _normal_ \-- you should grow up and settle down, have lots of plump children, be _happy_ \--"

Rory came up behind him, knocking him lightly upside the head, and Bilbo looked at him blankly. "How can they be happy if you're miserable, Bilbo?" Rory asked, and Otho and Drogo nodded in agreement. "Would you be happy if I stopped eating? Would you be happy if I was all alone, with no one to keep me company, while Amy and all them all got married and went away?"

Bilbo was already shaking his head. He would never be happy, if he knew that one of his cousins was suffering in such a way. "No --"

"Then look at yourself, you idiot," Rory said, his voice shaking, "Don't you see? We want you to be happy, too!"

But Bilbo pulled away from all of them, going to stand by the window and crossing his arms tightly, his chest shaking as he tried to control his sobs. "How am I supposed to be happy, Rory? I can't -- I can barely get through each day. How do you do it? How do you smile and laugh and dream of better things? I just -- can't," he whispered, and he held himself for a moment, gripping the key beneath his shirt, his shoulders shaking.

"I don't think there is any happiness for me," he continued quietly, "and even though you say I'm wrong, I cannot see it, I cannot believe it. The darkness from that place, from that monster, it has infected everything I have ever held dear. You heard Primula earlier -- she wants to be a _pain-bearer_!" He laughed sharply, wiping at his eyes, and slowly his expression emptied, staring out the window into the darkness beyond.

"That's who I became," he whispered. " _Nûl-lûpûrz._ It meant that I begged for pain, because when he was killing my mother, I begged for him to kill me instead. He said it so gently, sometimes, all the while ordering innocent people to their deaths. So I bargained with him, tricked him into hurting me instead. Tricked the Orcs, too, into making him angry, so that he would hurt them instead of us. Anything, anything at all that I could do, to keep him from hurting Rory and the others -- I did it," he whispered, looking back at his cousins. "I will carry that pain for the rest of my life, and I will never let anyone else bear it for me."

Rory stared at him solemnly, and Drogo and Otho both looked like they wanted to argue, but there was nothing they could say.

Bilbo watched them for a moment, his heart aching, and finally he sighed, turning back and sitting down on the window seat, clasping his hands in his lap. "I will... try to do better, though," he said quietly, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. "I cannot promise anything, because it's all too much sometimes, but I'll come to meals -- and you can drag me there if I don't want to go," he said, and Drogo let out a deep sigh, while Otho looked solemn.

"As long as you try, Bilbo," Rory said, looking relieved. "Just don't shut yourself up in here anymore, okay? You should go to the library like before, and to the nursery again, I've heard the kids miss you."

Bilbo nodded, feeling spent after shouting so much, after saying so much to his cousins -- and with the shock of Otho and Drogo _knowing_. It was too much for him to handle, and right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.

"I think I should rest now," he said quietly, and Rory watched him a moment, before nodding and taking Otho and Drogo by the shoulders. At last, he was giving Bilbo the space he wanted; maybe he had reached his peak as well.

"Right, we'll come find you for breakfast, Bilbo. Come on, boys," he said, pushing Otho and Drogo out the door, and Bilbo walked over to close it, though he paused, watching his cousins walk down the hall. They amazed him in so many ways, in their support and love for him, and though it filled him with such a vibrant happiness, he felt shaky and anxious still. 

Slowly he closed the door and went to his closet, pulling off his vest and hanging it up carefully. Then he went to the fire to bring it back to life, sitting down in front of it and staring into the bright flames for a long time, remembering.

Azog. _Nûl-lûpûrz._ The darkness of those halls, the darkness in his soul which he had never known until he had lived as a slave. The pain he had carried for so long -- and strangely, now, his shoulders felt lighter, for all that he hated the idea of Otho and Drogo knowing about what he had done for the past several years.

He pulled his legs to his chest, thinking of Azog and his burning blue eyes, the touch of his hand in his hair. So many times, Azog had manipulated him, thinking Bilbo's desperation to protect his kin a wonderful game -- and yet to Bilbo it had been his entire world, fighting to save them.

But it was over. Thorin Oakenshield had saved him from that life, had helped him destroy Azog -- had released him from the nightmare of that life.

Slowly, he reached up to his neck, pulling out his necklace and holding onto the silver key tightly, a small sob escaping him.

Some of his hurts may never be mended, not with time -- but Bilbo clung to the trust that he had seen in Thorin's gaze. Thorin had believed in him, to change himself and become a whole person again -- and Bilbo did not want to let him down.

He could do it. Bit by bit, step by step, he could move forward. The rumors that had caused him such anxiety -- he knew why now, and he believed that perhaps now, they would stop. He remembered that there had been a Hobbit whom he had given black mushrooms once -- the first Hobbit to die by his hand, actually -- whose face had been echoed in the woman who had glared at him tonight.

Rollo Boffin had been his name. His sister was Primrose Bracegirdle, née Boffin.

No doubt she blamed him for her brother's death, but Rollo Boffin had been gotten very sick in the second year of their slavery. Azog had decided he would be given to the trolls, and upon learning this, Rollo had begged Bilbo for help. Wasn't there a way to escape? He would rather die alone in the darkness than be torn apart by trolls -- and Bilbo had hesitantly mentioned some mushrooms he had seen, deep in the darkness, that were as black as night and looked terribly poisonous.

So Rollo had begged, and Bilbo had snuck away, fetching the black mushrooms with a heavy heart. He had handed them off to Rollo, then crept back to Azog's room, wondering all the while if he had done the right thing. He had laid awake for hours, worrying, tossing and turning, half-dreaming of finding every Hobbit in that hall dead -- and maybe the mushrooms would not even work, maybe Rollo would still be alive, or maybe he would throw them away --

But the next morning, Bilbo had walked into the Hobbit hall to find Rollo Boffin's body, his lips black and his face slack with death. Azog had raged and thrown his body to the trolls anyway, but Rollo would never feel the torture of a troll's hunger. He had died peacefully by his own hand.

Would Primrose Bracegirdle ever understand that? Bilbo had no idea -- but in his heart, he knew that he could not pay for Rollo's choice. Rollo would have died, no matter what, and though it was wrong -- though he had indeed helped someone commit suicide -- Bilbo felt better knowing that Rollo would not have known such terror at the end of his life.

Maybe someday, he would talk to Primrose Bracegirdle and explain everything about her brother's death. Maybe she would even understand -- or maybe she would call him _murderer_ again. That was her choice -- just as Rollo's suicide had been his own choice.

It _hurt_ , though, and for a long moment Bilbo mourned Rollo Boffin and the loss of his innocence. With such dark weights on his soul, how could he ever find happiness? Maybe it would be better if he followed his fellow Hobbits into death, but --

He could not leave Otho and Drogo, or Rory, or Primula, or the children in the nursery who had no one else to cling to, nor could he forget his promise to Thorin.

So Bilbo would live, and continue forward, and if it hurt, well -- he was a pain-bearer. That was his choice -- to bear the pain of those who could no longer carry it themselves.

Bilbo sat there for a long time into the night, gazing into the fire with dried tear marks on his cheeks, until at last he crept into bed and slept very deeply, his heart just the tiniest bit lighter.

~

The next morning, Bilbo did not sneak into the kitchen to eat cold porridge. Instead, he slept late, and was woken by Rory barging into his room and singing loudly about Bilbo having a visitor, so he should get up and come eat something hot and tasty.

Bilbo tried to glare him out of the room, but Rory would not be stopped, and so it was a very grumpy Bilbo who was pushed and prodded into the dining hall -- where he received a rather pleasant surprise. Delighted, he smiled across the hall at Bofur, who had come to visit along with his kin.

"Bilbo!" called Bofur, smiling cheerfully at Bilbo from where he sat, surrounded by Hobbit children who hung onto his braids and giggled at him. The other Dwarves were sitting at another table, eating heartily. Bofur stood and pried the children off of him, promising to tell them stories later to their pouts, and he walked over to Bilbo, clasping his shoulder and smiling at him.

"Haven't seen you in a while," he said, his dark eyes twinkling. "We made some ale a few days ago and brought it over to share tonight! Got any plans for today?"

Bilbo smiled despite the guilt he felt, reaching up to grip Bofur's arm. "I do now, if that is an invitation. How are you, friend?" he asked, walking with Bofur over to another table, and Rory went to grab them some breakfast, a grin on his face.

"Doing well, quite well despite this snow," Bofur said, and Bilbo noticed that he still did not take off his hat when he sat down, despite months of being scolded by manner-minding Hobbits. "Don't know how you Hobbits stand living in such small holes, and so close to the surface! You should see the halls of Erebor, Bilbo, now those are proper holes!"

Bilbo grinned as he sat beside Bofur, feeling better than ever, as Bofur always managed to cheer him no matter his mood. "Erebor already? Bofur, you try to convince me to go to Erebor at least once a week. Let's talk of something else! Tell me about the ale you made!"

Bofur winked at him, and Rory set a plate of hot food in front of Bilbo, as well as a steaming cup of tea. "No, go on, Bofur, tell him all about Erebor," he said with a grin, and Bilbo shooed him off, already distracted by the scents of tea and bacon. Rory laughed and went to find his own breakfast, leaving Bilbo to sigh and turn to Bofur.

Bofur took the advice to heart, and he began telling Bilbo a new story, about the many guilds of Dwarves who had dedicated themselves completely to making ale and wine. The other Brandybuck siblings came in to join them, and a few children crowded around Bofur, loving his charismatic tones, and even Drogo and Otho came over to listen. Pleased with his audience, Bofur added a few outlandish details to his story, much to Bilbo's amusement and the laughter of the children around them.

Bilbo felt a little nervous, as the hall filled more and more with Hobbits, but there were no whispers behind his back, and he could see that some of his fellow Hobbits had reddened eyes, much like his own. Many of his brethren greeted him with small, hesitant smiles, and he tried to smile back, feeling a little better with every kind expression. The Dwarves were greeted merrily, and Bilbo felt glad, happy even, because he had missed Bofur and looked forward to spending the day with him.

Bofur grinned at him, and Bilbo smiled back, the darkness that had kept him awake for so long last night retreating to the back of his mind, brightened by the presence of his friend and family. Maybe Bofur would come with him to visit the nursery, to see the orphans and the children who were special to Bilbo. Perhaps they could tell a story to the children together, and later they could have that snow fight Bilbo had been thinking about yesterday.

One step at a time, he promised himself. Today, a story and a snowball fight. Tomorrow, something else, something new and different -- and someday he would be whole again.

That was his promise to Thorin, and to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry for this chapter. It's all Rory's fault -- and you can see a bit of how he's Merry's granddad after all. Thankfully, we've got Bofur, who really just makes everything better.
> 
> If you need something fluffy after this, check out my new little series called [Heart and Soul](http://archiveofourown.org/series/39347), a Bagginshield romance!
> 
> By the way, there's an amazing art of Thorin and Bilbo [here](http://thatquirkygirlsart.tumblr.com/post/44909584256/this-drawing-can-be-taken-one-of-two-ways)! Thank you so much for the lovely art!!!
> 
> Next chapter: Thorin! Thorin! Thorin!!!


	19. The depth of one's soul

Deep in the caves of Moria, there stood a Dwarf with a regal bearing, staring down his opponent with a deep look of concentration, so focused that even with such a serious expression, anyone who gazed upon him immediately thought him menacing.

He was a tall Dwarf with long dark hair tied back in a thick plait, blue eyes bright beneath his brow, which glistened with sweat. He stood in the middle of a wide circle of Dwarves, silent as the crowd shouted and cheered. Across from him stood a stout Dwarf, a soldier of the King's army and one of the best. Both Dwarves were shirtless, their heavily muscled bodies ripe with sweat, wearing only thick pants and red sashes around their waists. Each held a sword, the soldier with a heavy Dwarf blade, and the King himself carried a shining blade, light and powerful, curving wickedly in Elvish steel.

They stood and stared at each other, each breathing softly, and the crowd hushed, eager to see their next moves. Then, at once, each Dwarf sprang forward.

The King pressed his weight down on one foot and turned sharply, using the power of the movement to strike at his opponent, and his opponent met his blade with a roar. A sharp clang sounded as their swords met, and the crowd was suddenly teeming with noise and energy again, each shouting for their favorite to defeat his opponent.

Again and again, they struck at each other, circled and prowled and paced around each other, always searching for weakness, for the opening that would decide the victor. The soldier was powerful in his own right, a fine warrior of hardened skill, but the King was a sight to behold, with his fierce attacks and commanding air. It was a fantastic fight to watch, and the Dwarves in the crowd thought themselves lucky for witnessing it.

Despite the shouts of the crowd, despite the apparent equality in skill of the fighters, the victor had already been decided. The King suddenly moved with incredible speed, striking at his opponent over and over, driving him back, until another sharp turn and thrust of his blade sent the soldier's sword flying, and the crowd parted for it to land. The soldier fell to his knees and stared up at his King, panting from the exertion, the Elvish blade just barely touching his neck. The King stared down at him, just as short of breath, and a moment later, he lowered his sword and held out a hand to help his opponent up. Then they bowed slightly to each other, and so ended the match.

The crowd went wild, and they surged forward to congratulate their liege, King Thorin, who accepted their exuberant appreciation with a nod. He picked up a cloth and wiped the sweat from his face, thinking longingly of the hot bath he would take later. Then someone called out the next match, and the crowd drew back so that the next fighters could take the stage.

Thorin waved as he stepped out of the way, exchanging a nod with the soldier who went away with his friends. Someone laid a heavy cloak over his shoulders, Durin blue, and Thorin sighed. As the next fighters took their places, Thorin turned and walked away from the large hall, carrying his sword and turning his thoughts inward. He strode down halls that had been polished of dust and dirt, that shone beneath the firelight of torches, the splendor of Dwarves a thousand years ago beginning to return to life.

In time, the torches would be replaced by lanterns. Each room would be catalogued of its contents, which would be stored away for historians to pour over. Then would come the repairs of walls, ceilings, and floors that had crumbled or been destroyed. Furniture would be made, and plumbing would be added or updated. Rooms and halls would be designated to new uses, new contents -- for a new city.

Durin's City, reborn.

Thorin Oakenshield, a Dwarf who could trace his lineage back to the father of his people, Durin I, who had once walked these halls so very long ago, took the same steps as his forefathers with a heavy mind and a somber mien. His mind was not on the Dwarves who bowed to him as he passed or on the new discoveries being made every day, nor was it on any of the meetings he would have the next day.

He thought of his family, so far away, in the shining city he missed every day. So often he found himself worrying about them, about how Frerin was handling his rule, how Dís was managing the council, how much trouble Fíli and Kíli were causing in his absence. How he missed them, and how much he looked forward to seeing them.

Sometimes his thoughts were too heavy, though, so he would turn his attentions to physical exertions, such as the mock battle he had just fought.

The matches were a good way to burn energy and keep his soldiers' skills sharp in the long winter of Khazad-dûm, when his men were not working on cleaning the Orc halls or exploring the long caves for ores. The majority of the soldiers would leave with Thorin to return to Erebor in the spring, but for now they all worked to recover the beauty and magnificence of Moria's caves.

It served as a convenient distraction for Thorin, as well, when he felt weighed down by meetings, plans, longing for home, and other things. Balin had taken over much of the everyday management of rebuilding and cleaning Khazad-dûm, but as King, Thorin still had much to oversee, particularly when disputes sprang up or matters concerning the other clans developed. These last seven years had been exhausting, and Thorin looked forward to returning home.

Home. Erebor. The beautiful, glittering city beneath the mountain, where his brother ruled in his stead and his nephews watched over the city. Dwalin had returned to Erebor before the snow had set in last year, and Thorin felt envious of him, for seeing those shining halls again. He sometimes ached, thinking of his family so far away, as they had long been close and he had missed them sorely, these past years.

Fíli and Kíli had both begged to come with him, and even Dís and Frerin had wanted to be at his side for this march, but Thorin had ordered every one of them to stay behind. He had refused to risk their lives, knowing that if Azog even heard of their presences, he would come to kill them, to finish off the line of Durin and destroy everything Thorin still held dear. So Thorin had gone on his war march alone, and now -- and now.

Now Azog was dead, and his family was forever safe. He would never again fear Azog finding them and murdering them. If he had hated Azog for killing his father and grandfather, then nothing -- not fury nor loathing could have described his feelings for Azog, had Azog come close to hurting one of Thorin's precious family members.

If nothing else, his intense gratitude to Bilbo Baggins could be attributed to his family's safety.

Of course, there were other reasons -- Bilbo's actions in saving his life, the priceless artifacts Bilbo had recovered, and more -- but Thorin prized his family above anything else, including his own life, and he wished sometimes that he could speak to Bilbo again, to give him thanks for everything Bilbo had done.

It was not to be, though. Bilbo had returned to his kin, and Thorin would travel to Erebor in the spring. Their promise existed, but Thorin would likely not see Bilbo Baggins for many years, and he felt an odd pang at that thought. Bilbo had intrigued him, with his clever mind and tenacity to live. Some part of Thorin wanted to know him better, to understand what had created that tiny Hobbit who had survived so much with such strength of mind.

He wondered what his family would think of Bilbo. No doubt Frerin would approve of him, for his valiant actions, and Fíli and Kíli would befriend him quickly, being young and open of mind. Dís might be harder to win over, but she valued cleverness and brilliance, and Bilbo possessed both.

Perhaps one day, he could introduce Bilbo to them.

Perhaps it had been pity, perhaps it had been something more, but he truly hoped that his promise to Bilbo would someday bring the Hobbit to the steps of Erebor, to meet Thorin again. Even if he never saw the Hobbit again, he hoped that their promise would keep Bilbo going. He had seen darkness in Bilbo's gaze, a desolation from his losses over the years, and Thorin sometimes wished he had done more, given Bilbo more. Yet there was nothing else Thorin could have done for the small Hobbit.

His own troubles had taught him well. Such hurts could not be mended through gifts or promises, but through time and self-healing. Thorin was blessed in that he had a loving family who had helped him through his pain, and from what he had seen, Bilbo at least had friends, perhaps even close kin amongst the Hobbits who had been rescued with him. Those people, and Bilbo's own actions, would save him.

So Thorin hoped.

He knew his fascination with the Hobbit was a bit odd, but Bilbo had saved his life and destroyed his mortal enemy. He believed that with the cleverness and courage Bilbo had demonstrated in Azog's halls, the Hobbit would move on from his harrowing past and become _whole_ again.

Thorin had seen greatness in that tiny Hobbit, and he looked forward to the day he would see Bilbo again, when Bilbo would stand tall and meet his gaze without crying or shivering from fear of Azog, of the future, of his pain -- of everything Thorin had changed for him.

He thought back to that early morning, when he had gifted a priceless artifact to Bilbo and gained a promise to meet again. How tightly Bilbo had held his hand -- how small his hand had been! Yet the Hobbit's grip had been firm and his gaze steady, for all that it had been clouded with tears. Thorin had wanted to wipe those tears away then, but he had not -- and now he wished he had.

Never had he felt such fascination for a single person. Some part of him acknowledged the strangeness of his interest, but he could not deny the truth in his thoughts. Sometimes he dreamed of that moment when he first met Bilbo's eyes -- and sometimes he dreamed of Azog's death and everything after, of that fear of Bilbo slipping away.

He worried. Would Bilbo truly heal? Would he slip away while no one was looking? Would he disappear into history, never to be seen again, just another death in a long line of victims of Azog the Defiler? Thorin believed in Bilbo -- yet still he dreamed of such darkness, of losing someone with whom he already had such a strong bond.

He would have to wait until Bofur returned, hopefully with the Thain's response and news of Bilbo and the Hobbits. 

With a deep sigh, Thorin forcefully turned his thoughts away from the small Halfling and focused on the path in front of him. For a moment, he did not recognize where he was -- but there, that was the tiny closet Bilbo had pulled his little chest from, all those months ago -- and now, around the corner, the grand hall full of gold, ancient artifacts, and priceless gems.

Thorin came to stand in the doorway of the treasure hold, which had since been carefully counted and filled with chests, each containing an exact weight in gold or gems. Still, some of the chests were open as the accountants in the room worked, and the glitter of the brilliant metal caught Thorin's gaze.

Gold. Such a beautiful ore, and yet so, so dangerous, to Thorin's family and to his long bloodline. Gold had driven the line of Durin to madness before -- and Thorin had long feared that madness, from witnessing so many moments of his grandfather's love of gold. The sickness, the darkness -- Thorin hated it, and yet deep in his mind, he coveted the gold, just as his grandfather had.

Thorin had battled this sickness time and again. Early in his life, he had watched his grandfather slowly wither away in his desperation to hold all the gold in Erebor. The treasure room had been piled high with every piece of jewelry and weaponry imaginable, all wrought in the shining metal that had run like rivers through the deep caves beneath Erebor. Such treasures -- and King Thrór had lusted for every piece of it that was created. Little had been sold outside of Erebor. Simpler wares of silver, copper, tin -- every other metal but gold, and their precious silver-steel.

That lust had been his downfall. Erebor had not been enough -- Thrór had decided that the caves of Moria, with its legendary mithril and gold veins that ran all through the mountains, would be his and his alone. It was that desire that had led Thrór to his doom, and Thorin had watched, wary and bewildered, as his grandfather's greed had consumed him.

It had broken his heart, to have his grandfather's head delivered to the front steps of Erebor, with **AZOG** carved into his forehead in Khuzdul letters. From that moment on, Thorin had vowed not to lose himself in gold-lust like his grandfather.

Yet it had been an upwards battle from the start. Thrór had taught him from the time he was knee-high of the value of gold, and Thorin himself had begun to yearn for it, to control it, just as his forefathers had.

Even after his grandfather's death, the treasure halls had remained much the same, as Thráin had seen little point in changing the system. Thorin's father had been infected with the sickness just like Thrór. That same darkness had sent Thráin to his death as well -- and once again, Thorin's world had been destroyed when he walked out of Erebor to find his father's head, **AZOG** carved into the skin.

No more. Not for all the gold in the Misty Mountains was it worth losing his family.

So Thorin had taken his father's place as King, bringing about a long age of prosperity and peace. He had emptied the treasure holds of everything but the most important or priceless of artifacts, and the rest had been melted down or gifted to other clans. He had given the control of gold over to Dís and the guild masters, who had shared and expanded the wealth of Erebor. They had controlled the economics of it, so that the value of gold did not diminish with a sudden flood of the precious metal into the market. The resulting industry had brought Erebor to true majesty and greatness.

Sometimes, though, Thorin burned to reclaim all of the gold that had been sifting through the kingdom into the hands of Elves and Men, who did not deserve such luxury. Yet he had controlled himself and his urges, knowing that it was only in his mind, that the gold was not meant to sit in Erebor's treasure hall forever, as had been his grandfather's wish.

Of course, Thorin had inevitably followed in his forefathers' footsteps to reclaim Khazad-dûm... but not for the gold, not for the precious ores and gems hidden deep in the earth, but for the freedom of the Hobbits and the destruction of the race of Orcs. So Thorin had promised, and so he had accomplished, freeing that poor race of Halflings and driving the Orcs out of their ancient halls.

Now that they had control of the Misty Mountains again, though... mining would begin again. Mithril, gold, and other rare, precious metals which had long been lost to them would once again be in production, and the thought disturbed Thorin. He worried that he -- and other Dwarves like him -- would once again fall to gold-lust. 

Sickness of the mind. At least his nephews and siblings had not been infected with this darkness. Thorin carried it all by himself.

With the faintest of sneers, Thorin turned away and strode through the halls, not stopping until he reached his rooms. Inside held a simple bed fashioned from wood, piled with the furs and blankets he had kept in his tent, the walls covered with the many maps, scrolls, and books that he used every day in his plans and meetings. The entire camp had been moved to the main halls of Khazad-dûm after the first successful round of cleaning. 

With a deep sigh, Thorin dropped the cloak and began to undo his braids. After such a workout, he needed to soak his hair and re-oil his braids. It would be nice to return to proper plumbing and the legendary hot springs of Erebor. As far as he could tell, the underground springs in the Misty Mountains were cold and dark, so unlike the naturally steaming springs and lakes that had been generously carved into the walls and floors of Erebor's caves. His engineers had already rigged up a proper heating mechanism, but it was not the same. At least their ancestors had installed some semblance of plumbing in most of the chambers.

Lost in thought, Thorin went through the motions of pulling off his clothes and setting the water to heat and fill the low tub in the washroom that was connected to his room. When at last the basin was filled, he turned off the water and stepped in, sitting down and sighing slowly, deeply, the aches from his fight twinging as the hot water touched his skin. Then he sat back and let himself drift, as the heat seeped into his muscles and relaxed him.

Soon it would be spring, and then Thorin would return home. Then he could settle into the familiarity of his role as King, and someday in the future, he would be released from his responsibilities, when Fíli was ready to take the throne. All he could do until then was control the madness and darkness within his own mind.

~

Deep in the long, winding halls of the Great Smials, there was a series of rooms that were well protected from prying eyes and the heavy noise of the front-most halls. The whole hall was painted in bright colors, the walls covered in beautiful landscapes of flowers, green hills, and bright blue skies, flowers painted carefully onto the wood and brick, white clouds drifting across the blue. Each room had its own theme of wilderness, some featuring spring, some featuring summer, some featuring fall, and all beautiful. Love and care had kept these rooms brilliant and preserved, though every day, there was another mess to clean, another scratch on the wall, another lost block or pencil that rolled beneath a bed or table, not to be seen for months or years, until someone did a hard cleaning of the entire hall.

It was the nursery of the Great Smials, and it was teeming with tiny Hobbit children, shrieking and giggling as they ran around, heedless of their minders who sat and chatted as they watched over the thirty or so children. Only one or two were into their teens, and all were very small, as Hobbit children took a long time to grow into their adult selves.

Lessons were over for the day, and the children had been gifted with two visitors, who sat in two chairs at one end of the large playroom, one of them a young Hobbit, and the other a Dwarf with a funny hat. The Hobbit had a sleeping child in his lap, and the Dwarf had a small set of tools that he was using to build toys out of wooden parts he had carved. The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, was chatting with the Dwarf Bofur as he worked, and every time another toy was finished, a child would appear in front of the duo and receive it with cheerful thanks before disappearing back into the madness of twenty-six Hobbit children playing.

Nearby, five more children sat, very quiet compared to the other children who ran about giggling. All were sitting peacefully, playing with wooden toys, reading a book, or snoozing against a large pillow. Sometimes, one or two of the louder children would come and ask a question, and upon receiving their answer, they would laugh brightly and run back to their friends. Not once did they bother the six children gathered around the Hobbit and Dwarf, long used to their behavior.

Bilbo and Bofur were both favorites of the children of the nursery. Most of these children had lost their parents and were in the care of the Thain's family until someone stepped up to adopt them, or until they grew old enough to go live with their relatives. Bilbo was their favorite person other than Myrtle Burrows, who had taken charge of the whole nursery and commanded the legion of children easily, along with her small team of caretakers. 

They all loved her -- but they adored Bilbo, who told fantastic stories and was so gentle, so kind to them, when they had no one else. They also loved his funny friend Bofur, who visited them often, sometimes even without Bilbo, because he always brought toys and told silly stories about Dwarves and sang lively songs that the children were quick to learn.

Many of these children had been slaves, some of them even with Bilbo in Azog's halls. They understood him, and they loved him anyway -- so Bilbo visited them often, even more often ever since the rumors had died down, three weeks ago. He knew how to handle them, too, when they grew angry or scared -- he knew what to sing and what to say to calm them down, to get them to stop screaming, to convince them to eat dinner or go to sleep or do what Myrtle said. He had learned such things in Azog's halls, having taken care of the children for years and protected them through their nightmares -- and through the torment of being awake in that place.

Bilbo understood the children, and they knew it -- so they allowed him near, accepted his stories and songs and scolding, and he loved them for it, because he could protect them, help them get better. If in turn, they helped him a little every day, with their smiles and laughter and soft hugs, then he would accept their love gladly.

Bofur being good with children was a happy delight to Bilbo, who had been hesitant at first to let Bofur know this part of his world. Apparently, in his spare time, Bofur liked to make toys, and he had taken care of nieces and nephews for years, as his brother had been quite prosperous with his children. Soon the two of them had taken to visiting the children at least once a week together, gifting them toys, telling them stories, and playing with them. 

Bofur had even become a favorite of the six quiet children who would, at first, only talk to Bilbo, Myrtle, and their family if they had them. Soon, though, they had begun to ask Bofur questions, in their soft tones, and Bofur had been happy to talk to them, his gaze and smile always gentle.

The first time meeting them, though, Bofur had been furious for hours afterwards. Not once had he revealed his anger to the children, but as soon as he and Bilbo had left, Bofur had gone outside to chop down trees furiously. Bilbo had stood with him in the snow, watchful and silent, shocked by his anger and a little bit scared, until Bofur had turned to him, thick mustache quivering.

_"Are they the only ones?" his Dwarf friend asked, and Bilbo was silent for a long moment._

_"The only children, yes," he answered carefully, and Bofur's eyes narrowed. Then his gaze flickered to Bilbo's stomach, and Bilbo shivered, though not from the cold, his hands going to cover the scar that was already hidden by his thick sweater and waistcoat, fearing Bofur saying anything else._

_But Bofur said nothing more, and if he was a little gentler in how he treated Bilbo afterwards, then Bilbo would not complain. It warmed him that Bofur cared, both for him and the children._

As Bofur tinkered with the wooden toy, Bilbo hummed softly, stroking May Grubb's back as she slept against him. She usually clung to him the most when he visited, though sometimes she would allow one or two of the other quiet children to curl up in his lap. Most of them did not like to be touched, but they would sit with Bilbo and ask him to brush their hair or hold their hands. It was enough, for both Bilbo and the children, to have such simple connections. 

Bilbo had told them, in the beginning when he had learned of their existence, that he was like them, that he had been hurt by someone far bigger and crueler than him. He had promised them that he would never try to force them to do anything they did not want to do. Perhaps they had not believed him at first, but he was one of the few people who stayed with them and offered silent support, when all the other adults had tried to make them behave like normal children.

They were not normal. Just like Bilbo was not normal. It would be easier for them to move forward and heal, once everyone understood that. They may not be normal -- but they could become normal again, through time and patience, or so Bilbo hoped.

At least the children had people like Bofur, who was happy to tell them stories and offer them whatever they wanted, whether it be space or a new toy. Bilbo could tell that the toys were helping -- in the beginning, the quiet children had rarely left their rooms, but now they sat openly with Bilbo and Bofur, close to the other children, and did not react badly for it. The toys had drawn them out of their shells, letting them play and act as children should again, without anybody forcing them to pretend.

Having May sleeping on his chest was making Bilbo feel very sleepy. Having slept so poorly lately, he did not think it would be too bad, if he drifted off now and napped with the kids. He might wake up with a painted face, but at least he would have rested.

"Bilbo," Bofur said quietly, and Bilbo hummed in response, feeling tired enough that he could easily doze off. Then he blinked and looked over, raising his eyebrows.

"Hmm?"

Bofur grinned at him. "Lookin' cozy there. Getting tired?"

Bilbo made a vague face in response, keeping his voice quiet as May slumbered. "I'm fine, just didn't sleep well last night. How is that toy coming along?"

Bofur glanced back at his lap, his mustache twitching with amusement. "May be a lost cause. I broke one of the pieces and was trying to make do, but looks like I'll have to go back to my place to get a new part," he said, holding up a mess of wood and screws, and Bilbo huffed a laugh.

Then they heard Myrtle and the other caretakers calling the children over for a story before they were given a nap. So Bilbo roused little May and the other quiet children while Bofur tucked his mess away. May whined a bit when Bilbo set her down, but when he said that Myrtle was about to tell a story, she scampered off with the others to their favorite corner to listen, leaving Bilbo and Bofur alone. The two exchanged nods and smiles with Myrtle, and after a round of promises and hugs with the other children, they managed to slip out of the nursery.

"Do you want to go back to your house to get that piece?" Bilbo asked, and Bofur shook his head.

"Nah, I'll deal with it later. Want to have a smoke?" Bofur asked, pulling out his pipe and winking at Bilbo, who could not say no to that.

So they went to fetch Bilbo's father's pipe, and the two retreated to one of the smoke rooms of the Great Smials, which was thankfully empty as it was nearing tea time. Bofur shared his weed, Bilbo pulled out matches, and the two of them settled into comfortable chairs to smoke, the heady tang of the weed calming to both Hobbit and Dwarf.

Bilbo let himself relax, as he had rarely been able to sit in ease like this in weeks. After the disastrous dinner of three weeks ago, where Rory had shouted himself hoarse and made the entirety of the population of the Great Smials cry, Bilbo had held himself carefully, cautious at the possibility of anybody lashing out at him -- but no one had. Still, he had slept poorly since, worrying over the next day, despite returning to a semi-normal schedule of reading in the library, attending every meal, visiting the children, and spending time with his friends and family. Some nights had been riddled with nightmares, and others he had barely slept, so anxious over everything that was happening.

At least the rumors had stopped. Primrose Bracegirdle had retreated and was refusing to speak to just about everyone, though her daughter still played with Primula on occasion. Bruno Bracegirdle's nose had healed, and though he still gave nasty looks to Otho, Drogo, and Rory, hostilities had been ceased for now. Jago Boffin sometimes spent time with Bruno, as they were cousins, but Jago also spent time with Bilbo's cousins, so there was a tentative peace amongst the young male Hobbits of the Great Smials.

It was nice to spend time with Bofur again, too, even though Bofur often tried to convince him to visit Erebor. Some of his earnestness to tell Bilbo of his home must have been from homesickness, but Bilbo thought that Bofur truly wanted him to visit the grand Dwarven city, to see its splendors for himself. The stories were beautiful, but Bilbo sometimes had dreams of a golden city with lots of cheerful people who crafted beautiful jewelry and trinkets, while a tall Dwarf with blue, blue eyes watched him, waiting.

He did not like yearning for something he could not have, but he did not tell Bofur to stop telling the stories, either.

After a few moments of peaceful, shared silence, Bilbo glanced over at Bofur to see his friend watching him. He started a bit, raising an eyebrow and staring back, and Bofur smiled slightly.

"You looked good with all those kids around you. Like you're meant to have lots of children," Bofur said, which made Bilbo's insides freeze, "but that may just be my view of Hobbits."

After a long moment, Bilbo gave a small sigh. "I don't think I'll ever have children of my own, Bofur," he said quietly, making Bofur's smile disappear.

"Why not? You'd be a great father!" Bofur said, leaning forward, but Bilbo shook his head, his heart aching. They had spoken of their families before, but rarely had Bilbo spoken of himself in such a way, even though Bofur had shared so much with him. Yet, at this point in their friendship, he felt he could share a little bit of himself. Just enough to make his point.

"I _can't_ , Bofur. I don't really..." and here he felt a bit awkward, but Bofur's cousin had been like him, so he felt brave enough to say it here, where prying Hobbit ears would not judge. "I'm not the marrying type. I shared some kisses with girls when I was young, but I was... more... well, more into the other lads, I suppose."

Bofur stared at him, his eyebrows rising, and Bilbo felt his cheeks turn pink, so he hurried on.

"Besides, no one's going to look at me twice after Azog... and I haven't looked at anyone twice, either," he said, very quietly, and at once Bofur's gaze softened and saddened, making Bilbo's chest hurt.

"Bilbo," Bofur said quietly, but Bilbo shook his head.

"If you're going to tell me that someday I'll fall in love and get married and live happily ever after, I'll never speak to you again, Bofur," he said fiercely, and Bofur sat back, smoking his pipe for a long moment and watching Bilbo.

"Wasn't what I was going to say," he finally said gruffly, and Bilbo stared at him.

"Then what were you going to say?" he asked, frowning.

Bofur breathed out a thick sigh of smoke, tapping out some ashes. "I was going to say that stayin' single's perfectly fine, if it's your choice. I'm not married, just like a third of the Dwarves in Erebor!" he said, giving Bilbo a look. "It doesn't make you less of a person, to be single. But if you're unhappy like that, that's a different story."

Bilbo was shocked. A full third of Dwarves never married? Nearly all of Hobbits got married -- or at least they had before Shirefall.

"Really?" he asked quietly, watching Bofur in confusion. "But your brother's married, and your cousin has Boro, so..." Then he paused, realizing what Bofur meant.

Bofur smiled knowingly. "Aye, exactly that. Dwarves have a low birth rate for girls, so most of the population is male, see? Not everyone feels like settling down, and those that do, not all of them are going to settle with someone to have kids. Everyone who gets married, they do it because of love, but we don't make marriage between only men and women. You know about Bifur and Boro, and there are women who marry each other, too. But some men and women don't marry at all, either because they don't meet their match, or because they're married to their job, see?"

Bilbo nodded slowly, sucking on his pipe and wondering at such an open society. "Hobbits aren't like that at all, you know. Marriage is when you want to settle down and have a family, start raising children... and men don't marry each other. They just become bachelors, usually live as neighbors and just visit each other," he said hesitantly, and Bofur frowned.

"Shame, that," he said, making Bilbo sigh.

"It's not like I agree with it, but that's how it is... was, I guess," he said, returning Bofur's frown. "Everyone fools around when they're young, but once you grow up, you're expected to have a large family, unless your siblings got to it first. I... didn't have siblings, so my family would have wanted me to get married... but I never looked at any of the girls like that," he said quietly, his cheeks slowly darkening.

Bofur watched him for a long moment, dark eyes twinkling. "I had that thought about you, Master Bilbo," he said with a small grin, and Bilbo shot him a dirty look.

"How do you figure that?" he asked, a bit sarcastically, and his friend laughed.

"Because you were so bothered by Bifur and Boro! But you always ask about them, don't think I haven't noticed," Bofur said, winking, and Bilbo sighed. He did not want to go into his leanings any further, so he turned to another comment Bofur had made.

"What did you mean, married to their jobs?" he asked curiously, and Bofur hummed in response.

"Well, that's a bit harder to explain. But I guess... yeah! Take King Thorin for example," Bofur said, sitting up, and immediately Bilbo's attention was caught.

"Thorin?" he said, before stopping himself and frowning at Bofur who laughed at him. "I mean, the King?"

"Aye," Bofur said, still chuckling. "King Thorin's never gotten married, never courted anyone that I know of. He's chosen his job over love, and there are plenty of Dwarves who do that, including yours truly!" Bofur grinned, and Bilbo rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but still his interest was on what Bofur had said about Thorin. Hadn't Thorin once mentioned sister-sons?

"It's an honorable thing for a Dwarf," Bofur continued, "to devote his or her whole life to their work. Some study Khuzdul their whole lives, and others become masters in whatever craft they take up. Thorin's done right by his people, choosing to turn away from his father's and grandfather's failings and make Erebor mighty again," Bofur finished, and Bilbo wondered at the possibilities of spending one's entire life creating things or learning.

"So what about heirs? With the King?" Bilbo asked, and Bofur nodded as he responded.

"King Thorin has two siblings, aye, his younger brother Frerin, and their younger sister Dís. Her Highness Dís has two boys, Fíli and Kíli, and I'll tell you, Erebor never knew chaos until those two were born. Fíli, the elder, he's Thorin's heir, and Kíli's being shaped into the commander of the military by General Dwalin.

"Now, remember that a third of Dwarves never get married? Thorin has no wife or husband, but both his siblings were bonded, and young at that. That's where it gets a little sad," Bofur said, his smile fading a bit.

Bilbo was leaning forward in interest, his attention completely on Bofur, who saw it and smiled to himself, but Bilbo could not resist. Bofur's stories of Thorin were few and far between, but Bilbo enjoyed every one of them, and this was no different.

Bofur continued, smoking his pipe as he told his story, and Bilbo listened intently. "Frerin was the first to get married, after King Thrór was killed and Thorin began his training to become the next leader after King Thráin. Frerin married a pretty maiden named Bala, and the whole kingdom celebrated the bonding. Then Bala got heavy with child, and everybody was happy, so happy."

Bofur's voice dropped a bit as he spoke, and Bilbo leaned in a bit to listen. "Bala went into labor early, too early, and the healers couldn't save her," Bofur said quietly. "They couldn't save the babe either, and Frerin was heartbroken. Everyone mourned with him, and for a long while, you could barely speak to either him or Thorin, because they were both inconsolable."

Bofur caught the surprise on Bilbo's face and nodded, some of his smile returning. "Aye, Thorin and Dís looked forward to the birth as much as Frerin. The three of them have always been close, and whatever heartache one sibling feels, the other two feel twice as hard. But then, only a few years after Thorin became King, Dís fell in love with her match, Níli, a traveler from the Blue Mountains.

"Oh, Thorin and Frerin were furious! Their baby sister, falling for someone like that? But it was a done deal, and everyone loved the two together, because Níli was a fine Dwarf, for all that he had spent most of his life in the mountains west of here. Níli chose to stay with Dís, and years down the road, they had Fíli, and five years later, young Kíli."

Bofur's eyes twinkled, his grin widening, and Bilbo smiled despite himself, eager to know more of this family. "Finally, the line of Durin had a new generation, the children precious to all three siblings, and Thorin himself named Fíli his heir. See, since Thorin's never had children himself, the line of Durin would have ended with him -- but with two boys, both Thorin's line and Níli's line can continue, yeah?"

Bilbo blinked, confused by this change in topic, and he gave Bofur a bewildered look. "His line? That's right, you Dwarves don't have family names, right?"

Bofur shrugged, breathing out a deep sigh of smoke. "Not family names like you Hobbits have. We have family lines. I'm of the line of Úr, for example, and when they were born, both Fíli and Kíli were of the line of Lí, from Níli. 

"But Thorin, Frerin, and Dís made a deal with Níli, that Fíli would be Thorin's heir, and Kíli would be Níli's heir. Fíli will name his son after one of Thorin's forefathers, and Kíli's son will be named with the line of Lí, so everyone would be happy in the end. Though poor Níli will never see it, since he died in battle about thirty years ago," Bofur said sadly.

The description of Dwarf genetics gave Bilbo a headache, and he used Bofur's moment of quiet to sort through the details, until he thought he understood. "So Thorin and Fíli are... of the same line, despite being uncle and nephew? And Kíli belongs to his father's line?"

Bofur nodded, grinning at Bilbo. "Aye, that's it! Men always inherit their family line from their fathers, and women always inherit from their mothers. But since Fíli is his sister-son, Thorin agreed to have Fíli as his heir, since he had never met his match and would not be having heirs of his own."

Bilbo nodded, understanding better now, though he thought it was all a bit odd. He personally felt that the Hobbit way was much easier, but then, he was a Hobbit, and so he had no right to judge Dwarves for their social customs.

Something had piqued his interest again. "You said Thorin... King Thorin never found his match, that the ones who don't marry haven't met their match either. What do you mean by that?" he asked Bofur, glancing into his pipe to judge the embers. Nearly done, then.

Bofur raised his eyebrows, but he answered agreeably enough. "Not sure how you Hobbits might look at it, but most Dwarves feel that everyone has a match out there, a soul mate of a sort. Different people believe different things about it, of course -- some think there's only one, while others think there's only a few possible matches you could ever have. But nearly all Dwarves agree that once you meet your match, you're drawn to them immediately, and little can keep you from them.

"Most people marry their match as soon as they meet and fall in love properly, but I've heard of some Dwarves meeting a second match later in life. Some never meet their match at all, which is what happened with me," Bofur said with a smile, but it seemed sad, so Bilbo reached over to grip his arm.

The information overwhelmed him a bit. Soul mates? He had heard of similar beliefs amongst Hobbits, but the Dwarf beliefs about matches and soul mates sounded rather romantic. "So you... and Thorin, neither of you ever found a match?" he asked quietly, and Bofur hummed, pulling his pipe from his lips and beginning to tap out the embers, so that he could clean his pipe. Bilbo followed his example, gently tapping the ashes into a small basket beside his chair.

"Aye," Bofur said, sitting back again and pulling out a worn, dirty cloth, beginning to clean out the bowl of his pipe. "It's said that you're drawn to them as soon as you meet their eyes. Some people know their match immediately, but for others, it takes longer, seeing them a few times or getting to know them before it clicks. I've even seen Dwarves who take years to realize that they're matches, simply because one of them was injured or sick, maybe absent, sometimes going through rough patches in their lives. 

"But in the end, most everyone who meets their match bonds with them, or forms a strong friendship at least. Not every match ends in a bond, but there's never been a match where they refuse to see each other again. It's too important to us Dwarves," Bofur said, and he smiled when he saw Bilbo's fascinated expression.

Fascinated, yes. The idea of a soul mate fascinated Bilbo, both from an academic point of view, and from his growing interest in Erebor and Dwarves. For a moment he felt sad for Thorin and Bofur, who had never met their matches, but neither Dwarf seemed less of a person for having remained unbonded for all this time, and that thought gave Bilbo a little hope, that maybe he would not be so poorly off either by remaining a bachelor.

He gave Bofur a smile and tucked his pipe back in his pocket, and Bofur returned a cheerful grin. "Thank you for telling me this. I'm glad you're here, Bofur," Bilbo said quietly, and Bofur chuckled but ducked his head, making Bilbo grin.

"Glad to be here, Bilbo. Maybe when I leave, you'll come with me, yeah? See Erebor proper," Bofur said brightly, and Bilbo laughed and leaned back as once again, Bofur began to tempt him into going to Erebor.

Someday, yes. Maybe not this year, but someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THORIN. That is all.
> 
> Next chapter: Changes, shouting, and visitors. Spring is here!


	20. An unexpected visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains lines that are borrowed and adapted from _The Hobbit_ by J. R. R. Tolkien and the film _The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey_ directed by Peter Jackson. The paragraphs containing these lines are marked by asterisks (*).

A lady in white smiled as she gazed upon her friend. He began to speak, and he spoke of many things, dark and distant things that had the hair raising on the back of her neck. It was not often, if at all, that the Lady of the Woods felt afraid, but Mithrandir's story disturbed her in many ways. They sat together as she listened, and when he was done, she began to share her thoughts on what he had seen and heard. They spoke long into the night, turning plans over and thinking aloud to each other, and this carried on for many days, until at least they had reached their decisions.

A lady in white frowned as she listened to the wind. The whispers of darkness were growing louder. A terrible evil was stepping into the world again, and it had one foothold in Dol Guldur, under the eye of a very old foe. The next step it wished to take was in the hands of a small Hobbit. Though she whispered to him and tried to quell the worries in his mind, the grip of power slowly closed around him. Would he endure, or would he falter and fall?

A lady in grey closed her eyes and thought of her brother, who had welcomed far too many into his halls, these past years -- and would welcome many more in years to come. Unless -- yes. Her child of mercy, if he were to give up some of his soul -- then fewer would fall to her brother's halls. So he had told her, and so she believed. 

A man in grey opened his eyes as he felt the cold wind touch his face. He walked through the darkened, bitterly cold forests of Arda, eyeing thick cobwebs and feeling a shiver in his heart. The darkness held secrets, foul secrets that should not have touched this world, and it was his duty to look into the darkness where his friend could not. It would be he who would distract his old friend who had fallen to darkness, and it would be he who would defeat him, in the end.

A man in black stared over the beautiful planes, mountains, hills, valleys, rivers, cities, strongholds, homes, and people of the world. He calculated and planned, and always he thought of the darkness that would fall, that would infect this world and bring it under his control. He was not complete, no -- but soon he would be, once he found his other half, the ring which he had forged an age ago.

A hobbit in an oversized green waistcoat gazed out his window, one hand turning over and over a thick gold ring. Though he did not know it, the ring was a source of trouble and grief, and he would one day regret ever picking it up. The ring was pure evil, with a mind of its own -- but yet it could not take this tiny halfling, not fully, not like it had the other. Still, it could whisper, and what it would whisper would bring terrible things upon the hobbit -- and wonderful things, too, in the end. 

Yet Bilbo Baggins, who held Sauron's most precious treasure, had no idea that the ring in his hand would drive him to the edge of sanity and desolation. His mind had no room for the temptation -- it had enough to deal with, in grief, sadness, and nightmares, which the ring made worse in the darkest of moments. The ring could infect him, though, and would -- it would drive him to terrible things, dark things, awful things that would haunt him -- but he had already done terrible things.

The ring could not control him, as Bilbo was not simply a ring-bearer -- he was also a pain-bearer.

~

As the ice on the trees melted, and the snow banks shrank, a figure strode from the protective trees of Lothlorien, clad in grey with a hint of white beneath his long robes, a long white staff in one hand and a sword hanging from his belt. He looked up past the rim of his large hat and gazed upon the imposing figures in the distance. The Misty Mountains, once home to the Dwarves of Arda, then taken by Orcs... and taken back by Dwarves, or so Galadriel told him.

Gandalf muttered to himself as he began his long trek into the mountains. He knew of Thorin Oakenshield's victory, as news had traveled to Lothlorien already, but he did not know the extent of the battle. Now that he had returned from some unpleasant business, he could see to his friend, and then he would visit the Shire, to see how the Hobbits were doing.

The months since his return had not been spent idling in the forest. He had gone to visit his fellow Istari Radagast, who had informed him about some strange happenings in the forests of Mirkwood. He had seen evidence of foul creatures, of Orc movements across Middle Earth, and he had followed their trails to the southern edge of Mirkwood, but had lost them in the darkness.

He suspected that they had gone to Dol Guldur, but he had no evidence, and instinct warned him not to investigate the ruins just yet. Instead he had observed from afar alongside Radagast, and he had warned Galadriel of his suspicions. There was a dark power building in that fortress, thought to be abandoned, but Gandalf suspected that the necromancer he had once chased from Dol Guldur had returned, if the trails of Orcs and goblins fleeing to Dol Guldur were any hint. Long ago, he had noticed the dark powers gathering in that old fortress and had investigated, finding a strange sorcerer who practiced very dark arts, but the sorcerer -- a necromancer, of all things -- had fled, and Gandalf had been left explaining to Saruman and the White Council what he had been doing. 

As for his old friend Saruman, he had not yet met him again since his return. The painful knowledge that his Lord and Ladies had gifted to him kept Gandalf from seeking out his old friend, though he needed to go to Isengard to search through the older tomes for knowledge. Years ago, he had attempted to visit Dol Guldur to investigate, and Saruman had stopped him, convincing him to leave that side of the Misty Mountains to Galadriel and Thranduil, who saw no presence of evil there.

Gandalf should have known better. He had suspected, but never thought so badly of his friend that he would believe that Saruman had fallen to darkness. Yet if what his Lord and Lady had told him was true, then he would have to be very careful around Saruman.

Before that time, he would visit Thorin, and Elrond, and the Shire. He wanted to know how the Hobbits were doing, and he needed to share this knowledge with Elrond.

It took him another day to reach the Eastern Gate of Moria, and two days more to travel through the mines to the heart of the mountain, where Thorin Oakenshield and his Dwarves were gathered. The path had been easy to traverse, unlike times before, as the Dwarves had staked out the best caves for roads in the months since their victory. When Gandalf the Wizard strode into the halls of Khazad-dûm, shining and cleaned for the first time in a thousand years, he walked with an easy amble, admiring the work the Dwarves had completed over the course of the winter.

His entrance caused quite a stir. Dwarves stopped what they were doing and stared. A few realized who he was and raced off to find their commanders and king. Thus when Gandalf walked into what had once been Azog the Defiler's throne room, which was now a grand hall filled with a massive stone table with many chairs, he had to smile when he met the astonished gaze of Thorin Oakenshield.

The Dwarf looked tired, a usual vision for Gandalf who had traveled beside him for several years. The sword that Bilbo Baggins had found was belted to Thorin's back, which made Gandalf smile to himself, knowing full well of Thorin's hatred for anything of Elvish make. He wore his normal royal blues, but something about him was different. Gandalf could see a tension in his friend, in the furrowed brow and slightly hunched shoulders, but he could also see a lightness in Thorin's eyes. Perhaps because he would return to Erebor? Whatever had changed, Gandalf intended to find out.

Thorin stood from the table, where he had been leaning over a large map with Balin and his remaining commanders, and walked to meet Gandalf, looking partly suspicious and partly awed by his presence. There was a sparkle in his eye, though, and Gandalf felt pleased that his friendship with Thorin had not faded.

"Gandalf," Thorin began, reaching out to clasp Gandalf's arm, "we thought you lost! We searched, but we found no trace of you."

Gandalf smiled and reached up to grip Thorin's shoulder. "That would be because there was little of me for you to find! We have much to speak of, Thorin Oakenshield. I heard of your victory, but you do not know of mine... and there are other things I wish to know, and that I must tell you."

Thorin nodded, and he turned to his commanders to tell them to continue without him. Then he and Gandalf began to walk together, down another hall that led deeper into the city. "Then let us speak, friend," Thorin said, and Gandalf nodded sagely.

"Tell me what has happened."

~

In the middle of Hobbiton, Bilbo Baggins sat upon an old, worn bench at the bottom of a small walkway, which led up a hill to what had once been a beautiful hobbit smial -- the most beautiful in Hobbiton, once upon a time. Time and darkness had destroyed the beauty, though, and if one looked close enough, claw marks could be seen on the door. The inside was nearly empty, cleaned of any mess, but once it had been a place of wondrous comfort.

Once a hole in the ground, and once a Hobbit had lived there, along with his mother and father, whom he had loved very dearly. The green door was faded, the brass knob was dulled and dirty, and the cracked windows were clouded over with dust and ash. The yard that had once been filled with flowers of every color and tall, emerald-green grasses was now dry and yellowed. A few brave flowers had sprouted here and there, peeking up into the faintly warm air of early spring with a tenacity that Bilbo admired, though he pitied them at the same time.

No longer was there any life in Bag-End, though Bilbo had done his best, alongside his cousins, to clean everything up, in one last effort to find anything else he wanted to keep, to take with him when he left this place once and for all. What he had collected was stored in a trunk that sat at his feet. He had left all of the furniture that was worth taking in the entryway, and later his cousins would come help him move the pieces back to the Took family home.

In one hand he held his father's pipe, one of the few mementos he had left of Bungo Baggins. It had a tiny bit of Old Toby stuffed inside, something Bilbo had taken to with a gusto after he had returned from the Misty Mountains. He had not smoked much when he was younger, but the stress of daily life and the yearning to be more like his father had given Bilbo a desire to smoke. He was very careful not to use his good pipeweed too often, for fear of never smoking it again, usually choosing to smoke the thinner and cheaper variety that someone had created a few years ago, but today he thought he had earned a bit of a good smoke.

The Great Meeting had begun this week, when the farmers had announced that the soil would grow no more food. Bilbo's cousin Fortinbras, Thain by name, had called all of the Hobbits to Tuckborough, and they had come in droves, from Bree and beyond, filling the Great Smials to the brim with arguing, worried, anxious Hobbits of all ages and sizes. 

Drogo and Otho were rooming with Bilbo at the moment, having given their room to another family, and it was testing Bilbo's temper to be in such close quarters with his cousins. They did not understand his nightmares, though they tried to be accommodating to his needs, and the three of them had already shouted at each other a few times in frustration.

Bilbo was not sleeping well. Every night, he faced dark visions and terrible dreams, of his past with Azog and of the future he feared so much. He sometimes talked in his sleep, and it bothered Drogo and Otho, who already did not sleep well because Bilbo kept a light on at night. All three of them were rather tired for it, but the past two nights, they had all slept relatively well.

A good thing, as yesterday morning Bilbo had been called into the Great Meeting to give his opinion on the matter of leaving the Shire. Just the thought of speaking in front of so many Hobbits, all of them much older than he was, had caused Bilbo great anxiety, but with his family at his side, he had haltingly explained his desire to leave the Shire and create a new life. He had even told them a bit about the Dwarves and his friendship with them, at Fortinbras' urging, and Fortinbras had pulled out Thorin's letter, reading the part about going to the Vale and forming a trading contract with the Dwarves.

Bilbo had left after that, leaving the Hobbits to shout at each other, his part done. Fortinbras had thanked him later, confiding that his opinion and experiences with the Dwarves had done a great deal to help sway the Hobbits, whose opinions of Dwarves had been changing for the better over the years. Bofur and his kin were supposed to have spoken at the Meeting this morning.

Bilbo wondered how that had gone. Drogo and Otho would surely tell him when they arrived. Bilbo had left before breakfast, and it was now nearly lunch, so hopefully Drogo and Otho would have brought something for his growling stomach.

Drogo and Otho should be along soon, hopefully with a cart, and they would help Bilbo take all of this back to the Great Smials. Tomorrow they would go out to Buckland with Rory to search through Drogo's parents' home, then again to Otho's old home. Bilbo let himself drift, thinking of all that they had to do in order to be ready to leave when it was warm enough for travel. He still had to speak to Rory, who had been in conference with his family all morning, about whether Rory would go with them.

The Great Meeting (or as Rory and Bilbo liked to call it, the Great Shouting) was not over yet, but Bilbo already knew in his heart that he would leave this place. So he sat, gazing over what was once the heart of the Shire, and he ached to see how run-down and sad it all looked. The land was no longer green, but yellowed and charred, and the houses were all broken and empty. The farmland, once plentiful, grew nothing; the dirt was too oily, too dark to support life. The clouds were thick, swirling above the horizon and blocking out most of the sunlight, though like the flowers, the sun would bravely peek out every so often, casting warmth on Bilbo's face.

He brought the pipe to his lips and filled his lungs with the pungent smoke, breathing out slowly and watching the wisps curl into the air. Going through his family's belongings, torn and dusty, had reminded him of dark things, of the nightmares he saw every night in his sleep. Of his mother and father, dying before his eyes, and of the darkness he feared now, having spent seven years without sunlight. Of a pale Orc who still haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

He could feel that fear in his bones -- it had taken control of his entire body, leaving him weakened and unable to walk for long periods of time without getting shaky. He had experienced that on his journey home from Moria, beside Bofur who had been rather understanding about it, for all that Bilbo had slowed them down. His aunt said that it was a sickness in the bones, that he was not the only Hobbit to suffer this way. Spending time in the sun helped, but sometimes Bilbo still felt aches in his knees and joints, as if he were very old. Hopefully getting away from this place would improve his health.

Seeing the destruction again, seeing the house of memories and sadness -- it reminded him of his promise, to become better, and to take care of his family. Bilbo believed that it was his duty, as their only son, to make a new home, a better home that would be filled with new memories. He would do right by his cousins and raise them to be proper Hobbits, proper Bagginses, no longer getting into fist fights and using foul language and running about like wild children. If he had to, he would take the spirit of Bungo Baggins himself into his lessons and teach Otho and Drogo exactly how to speak and behave, if only to be somewhat normal again.

He would not forget his mother's lessons, though. She had taught him to love nature and adventure, and he would teach his Baggins cousins a little Tookishness, too, in honor of her memory. They already had learned a bit of it, from living in the Took home and from spending so much time with Rory, who was just as much a Took as he was a Brandybuck.

When Bilbo had been a child, he had grown up believing in two sides of himself, his Baggins side and his Took side. Two families, so different in beliefs and practices, but somehow his mother and father had fallen in love and lived together happily -- so Bilbo had tried his best to balance his two 'sides,' wavering between his desire to run about searching for Elves and his need to behave and learn proper manners. Now, Bilbo understood that these were not his 'sides,' but simply aspects of his personality that were as much a part of him as his hair or his love of books. 

He would do right by both of his parents, and hopefully he would do right by raising his cousins, as well. Whatever the other Hobbits decided, Bilbo would leave the Shire, along with his cousins and family, and though it would be a long journey, they would hopefully find a new home in the Vale on the other side of the Misty Mountains.

A large gap in the clouds allowed the sun to shine down again, warming Bilbo's cheeks and making him smile. He lifted his pipe to his lips and breathed in, closing his mouth a bit and flicking his tongue as he blew out, attempting to create a smoke ring. The resulting 'o' of smoke made Bilbo's smile widen, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth on his face and the cool breeze, letting himself believe for a moment that everything was normal.

He heard footsteps coming up the path, but no rattle of a cart, so he gave a small sigh, guessing that Drogo and Otho had not found one. He did not open his eyes just yet, though -- until a small puff of smoke blew into his face, and he started and looked up, coughing.

Instead of Drogo or Otho, a very tall and very familiar figure in grey stood there, with a large pointed hat, warm blue eyes twinkling down at Bilbo. Bilbo stared at him, his mouth falling open as he realized just who was standing in front of him.

"I, um," Bilbo stuttered, before he remembered his manners, straightening and closing his mouth. "Good morning," he offered, and Gandalf smiled at him from beneath his thick bushy eyebrows. *

"What do you mean?" Gandalf asked. "Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not?" he went on, making Bilbo's eyebrows go up. "Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning? Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?" the Wizard asked, his smile widening with a softness that Bilbo had not seen for many months, and he felt warmed by it. He had not forgotten Gandalf's kindness, in Azog's halls, nor his promise to help Bilbo should he need it. *

"All of them at once, I suppose," Bilbo said, and he stood with a small smile, going to the fence door to meet Gandalf, who huffed a small laugh. "Would you like to sit with me and have a smoke? I've not seen you in quite a while." *

Gandalf reached up to touch Bilbo's shoulder, and though Bilbo shivered a bit, he did not flinch away. This was someone who cared very much for him -- there was no reason to be afraid. Gandalf's gaze sharpened, but he did not stop smiling, and Bilbo relaxed a bit, his smile widening.

"I've no time for smoke rings, I'm afraid, Mister Baggins," Gandalf said, and he leaned down and dropped his voice to a conspiratory whisper. "I'm looking for someone to share in an _adventure_." *

Bilbo's jaw dropped again, but instead of wariness or anxiety, he only felt a sensation of _want_. What good fortune was this, for Gandalf to appear just as Bilbo wanted to leave this place? But he could not go on an adventure, not when he was about to leave and start a new life.

"I'm afraid I haven't got time for an adventure," Bilbo said, feeling a little sad. "I'm planning to go away, and I shan't be coming back, I should think."

Gandalf raised his thick eyebrows and looked rather interested in Bilbo's words. "That sounds awfully like an adventure to me. Where are you going, if I may ask?"

That got a laugh out of Bilbo, whose smile widened a bit more. "I'm not sure about the others, but I've been planning to travel to the Anduin Vale. I haven't really got a home here, not anymore, and I was thinking of making a new one out there. Someone told me there's a very nice man out there, who will help me if I ask, and there's a Dwarf out there as well, who has promised to meet me later."

Bilbo glanced back at his old home, and Gandalf followed his gaze, his smile fading and his blue gaze turning dark and sad. Without a word, Bilbo opened the gate, and Gandalf stepped through, walking up to the worn green door slowly. Bilbo followed, watching Gandalf curiously, feeling nervous with his presence, but also strangely excited.

"May I?" Gandalf rumbled after a moment, and Bilbo nodded.

"Go ahead," he said, and he followed Gandalf as the Wizard opened the door and stepped into his home. In the middle of the floor was a trunk of books, along with a large chair and a feather mattress slumped to the side. There was also a lovely bookcase with leaves carved into the wood, Bilbo's favorite from his childhood, and some of his mother's garden tools, tied together neatly. When Aunt Linda had gone through Bag End, she had only taken the most important items -- food, clothing, blankets, and the like -- as that had been what they had needed in Bree and Tuckborough. Not much else had survived, and what Bilbo had not kept for himself would be given away. 

Gandalf stood up straight and promptly hit his head on the chandelier. A laugh burst out of Bilbo, and he quickly covered his mouth when Gandalf turned a wounded look on him.

"Sorry," Bilbo said, and Gandalf huffed at him.

"To think that I should have lived to be laughed at by Belladonna Took's son," Gandalf muttered, and Bilbo's smile saddened a bit at the mention of his mother. *

"She laughed at you quite a lot herself, if I remember right," Bilbo said, and Gandalf's expression softened.

"So she did indeed, Bilbo. Your mother was a wondrous person," Gandalf said, looking back into the darkened house, obviously seeing the same bright memories that Bilbo did, and for a moment, they were both quiet. Then Bilbo breathed in deeply and stepped back a bit.

"You can look around if you like. I'll be outside," he said quietly, and he turned away and left the house, walking out to the bench again to sit down. For several nervous minutes, he smoked by himself, keeping an eye on the path in case Drogo and Otho showed up, but soon he heard the door close again, and then Gandalf came down and sat beside him.

He stayed silent as Gandalf pulled out a long white pipe and filled it with weed, then lit it with his finger, beginning to smoke alongside Bilbo. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds again, and Bilbo felt a bit cold, knowing that this would be the last time he would see Bag End.

"I'm so sorry, my boy," Gandalf said quietly, and Bilbo smiled a bit, looking up at the clouds.

"I think I've come to terms with it. I'm ready to start something new. I'm ready to get away from this place, even though I'll miss it... but I miss the old Shire. I can't find anything in this Shire to miss, really, because all I see is memories. You know they're having a big meeting right now, up in Tuckborough? Everyone's been shouting all week about it, but I've made up my mind.

"Now that I think about it, it will be a grand adventure of its own, right? Starting a new life. I'll build a good life for my cousins out there, and someday I'll meet Thorin... er, I guess you wouldn't know, but I befriended him a bit --"

Gandalf's amused voice interrupted him. "I met Thorin Oakenshield before I came here, Bilbo. He told me of your great deed, and of the promise you made to him," he said, and Bilbo blushed.

"You spoke with him?"

"Yes," Gandalf said, smiling, and Bilbo looked up at him curiously. "He told me about the last battle of his war march, where you saved his life. Curiously, he said I could find you in Bree, but instead I found you here."

"Oh," Bilbo said, wondering what Thorin had said of him, but unsure how to ask about it, and feeling pleased that Thorin had spoken of him at all. "I think everyone was in Bree in the beginning, but then Fortinbras -- he's the Thain now -- he invited everyone to Tuckborough, and most of them went with him. That's where my family is. Not... not everyone is gone, did you know? My Baggins cousins, they survived, and all of the Brandybucks are there, and even my Took cousins, they all lived through it. I've still got family, Gandalf," he said, his voice catching, and Gandalf reached over to pat his hand, his eyes bright.

"Why don't you tell me about it, Bilbo?" Gandalf offered, and Bilbo did, opening up to Gandalf in a way he had not done with anyone else save Bofur and Rory. He told Gandalf about the oldest of his Took aunts and uncles who had died fighting the Orcs, about his cousins who had survived, about the last of his Baggins family who would be traveling with him to the Vale. He even told Gandalf a bit about his nightmares and his depression, about how his cousins sometimes had to force him to eat or leave his room, and about how very thankful he was to his family.

He told Gandalf of his friendship with Bofur, about the children he still visited every week, sometimes every day, about the quiet children like him, who were no longer as quiet, who laughed and ran about sometimes, and who had taken to curling up in Bofur's lap while he told them stories about Erebor. He told Gandalf about how everyone was thankful to the Dwarves for everything they had done, how some of the girls had started giggling and blushing around the Dwarves when they visited, and how Thorin Oakenshield was quickly becoming a favorite person to pretend to be in the nursery games.

Bilbo was saying, "Someone will yell, 'I'm King under the Mountain!' and someone else will pretend to be a troll, and once 'Thorin' has defeated the troll, the other children will attack him, and whoever wins gets to be the next Thorin. It's rather silly and rightly cute, because whenever I see the game, I think of little Thorins running around chasing trolls, and then I just start giggling." Bilbo laughed a bit, remembering the game and wondering what Thorin would have thought of it, and Gandalf smiled at the description.

"You wouldn't believe it, Gandalf, but everyone loves the Dwarves. Bofur's very popular, even if he hasn't got any manners," Bilbo said, and Gandalf's smile widened. "He tries to talk me into going to Erebor every day, you know, and I'm already halfway convinced! But I'm not ready to meet Thorin again, not yet, even though I'd really like to go," Bilbo said, his expression falling a bit.

Gandalf opened his mouth to reply, but a new voice broke into the conversation, making both Hobbit and Wizard look up. "What do you mean, I haven't got any manners?" Bofur said, coming to stand in front of Bilbo and Gandalf, and Bilbo grinned at him.

"Take off your hat at dinner, and then talk to me about manners," Bilbo said, and Bofur pulled a face at him.

Then Bofur looked at Gandalf, his eyes widening. "Gandalf! We thought you had fallen in Moria! When did you get here?" he asked, and Gandalf gave a secretive smile.

"Oh, not a little while ago. It is good to see you, Bofur. I have a message for you, actually --"

"Is that Gandalf?" called another voice, and then Drogo, Otho, and Rory walked up, pulling a cart and giving Gandalf wide-eyed looks. Gandalf stood, towering over the Hobbits and Dwarf, and all four began to talk at once, while Bilbo watched with a bemused smile. Gandalf seemed pleased by the attention, and Bilbo thought that dinner tonight would be splendid, once the rest of the Shire caught wind of Gandalf's return.

~

Later that night, Bilbo sat on an old, creaky armchair in a large room that had once been another dining hall, but had been converted into a second nursery for all of the new children who came with the visiting Hobbits. All of the young children of the Shire were in the room, giggling and shrieking and running about while their minders watched, though several children were sitting around Bilbo, talking to each other in their young voices, no longer as quiet as they had been only a few months ago. On the other side of the room, Gandalf was entertaining a horde of children with small firework tricks, much to their awe and fascination.

A creak of old wood caught Bilbo's attention, and he looked over when Bofur sat down in the chair beside his, giving him a grin and catching the delighted attention of the children nearby. "Mister Bofur, look at this," one boy said shyly, going to Bofur and showing him one of the toys that Bofur had made, that the children must have painted, for it was now brightly colored.

"What pretty colors! You did a great job," Bofur said, giving the boy a pat on the head, and the boy beamed and ran back to his friends. 

"He's been waiting three days to show you that," Bilbo said quietly, and Bofur chuckled as he watched the children.

"I've been working on something! But I'm about done, so there will be plenty of time now to visit," he said, giving Bilbo a smile. Then he pulled out a scroll and unfurled it a bit, and Bilbo blinked.

"What's that?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, just a letter from King Thorin," Bofur said casually, his gaze sliding over to Bilbo, who sat up immediately and leaned over a bit to see more easily. Bofur laughed at him, and Bilbo muttered, flustered by his own reaction.

"Oh, you can't just say things like that! I guess Gandalf gave that to you?" Bilbo said, glancing over at the Wizard across the room. 

"Aye, he passed through Moria on his way here, got this from the king," Bofur said, and Bilbo tried to contain his curiosity for a long moment. Bofur grinned at him, eyes twinkling, and Bilbo gave him a frown.

"Alright, you wouldn't be showing it to me if you didn't want me to know about it. What does it say? How is he?" Bilbo asked, leaning over to see the letter better.

Bofur laughed, looking rather pleased with himself, and Bilbo rolled his eyes. "Thorin's leaving the Misty Mountains, heading back to Erebor. He says I'm to give him any news your Thain wants to pass on before I go back, too. But after this morning, I've got a bit of an idea I wanted to share with you," Bofur said. 

Bilbo felt rather surprised, then sad. He did not want Bofur to leave, not after befriending him so well over the past few months. Then Bofur's words caught his attention, and he leaned over the arm of his chair, raising his eyebrows in expectation. "Go on," he said slowly.

Bofur snorted and rolled up the scroll again, his voice dropping as he glanced at the children nearby. "You're planning on leaving, aren't you? You'll need some help getting there, and who knows that whole side of the Misty Mountains better than me? I don't want you to get lost, and there are still Orcs out there, not to mention the mines of Moria themselves are easy to get lost in. I'll be your guide! What do you say, Bilbo?"

Bilbo stared at him, once again surprised at how easily Bofur could read into him. He had been worrying for months about this trip, ever since Fortinbras had visited him and told him about the Great Meeting. He had worried and planned, imagined leaving and taking his cousins with him, though he was hesitant to leave Rory, his best friend. He suspected that his aunts and uncles would follow with their families, but he had no idea how everything would happen. Should he go first and find a place for them? Should he wait until everyone could go with him? Yet he had begun to pack and prepare anyway, without really telling his Took or Brandybuck cousins other than Rory. He had talked to Bofur only a little about leaving, and yet here was Bofur, ready to follow him, to lead him even.

"I don't know what to say, Bofur," Bilbo said, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "I thought Thorin wanted you to go back to Erebor."

Bofur waved the scroll around with a grin. "Ah, but he didn't order me to go back, did he? Says right here," he said, pulling open the scroll and reading from it, "' _At the end of the third month, I will take the remainder of the army back to Erebor. If the Hobbits have further need of you, then stay with them until their need has been fulfilled, before you follow us home. Send me word of anything they need before I leave._ ' Oh, and here at the end, I didn't even see that.

"' _Give Bilbo Baggins my greetings. I hope he is doing well, and I look forward to hearing your report on him and the Hobbits._ ' I can tell him everything in a letter, you know," Bofur said, watching Bilbo's face.

Bilbo felt rather flustered at knowing that Thorin was still interested in him and wanted to know about his health. He wished he could tell Thorin himself, about what was happening in the Shire, and about his own recovery. He wanted to reach out and be able to find Thorin again, speak to him again, but they lived in two different points in their lives. At least he knew that Thorin was doing well, and he could let Thorin know he was doing well, through Bofur.

"Bofur," Bilbo said quietly, and Bofur beamed at him.

"See, he's given me leave to do what I want here, so long as I'm helping you, which is the whole reason for it! I'll get back to Erebor sooner or later. You're my friend, Bilbo, and I want to help you. Will you let me?" Bofur asked, giving Bilbo a rare serious look, and Bilbo sighed with a smile.

"I would be happy if you came with us, Bofur," Bilbo said, his smile widening, reaching up to touch the necklace underneath his shirt. "I don't want to keep you from your family, though."

"Oh, I'll send them a letter, no worries. Bombur's got his family, and Bifur has his Boro. I'm more needed here," Bofur said, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling, and Bilbo smiled at him, rather happy with Bofur's decision to stay with them.

"I'll talk it over with Fortinbras... and with my cousins, and Rory too," Bilbo said, his hands dropping to his lap. "I think everyone's going to end up going, anyway, but I was thinking... maybe we could go first, meet Beorn and find a good place to settle. If you take us there, we can find the best spot... don't you think?"

"Aye, sounds like a plan! From the way your elders were talking, it's likely they'll want someone to look about first. Between the two of us and your cousins, and maybe even that Wizard over there, I think we can take care of that," Bofur said, gesturing over at Gandalf, who lit another small spell that flew around as a small bird of light, causing the children to shriek with glee.

Bilbo nodded, already thinking about what he would say to Rory and Fortinbras, how he might convince Aunt Mirabella to let him take Rory, who else might like to come with them. "And you will tell Thorin this? In a letter, instead of going to meet him?" he asked, watching the small fireworks dance around the room.

Bofur nodded, humming under his breath, then gave Bilbo a sidelong look, a grin touching his lips. "I'll write to him, yeah, but you know, Bilbo... you could write to him, too," he said slyly, and Bilbo looked over sharply, staring at his friend.

"Write to Thorin Oakenshield? Me?" Bilbo said, a laugh escaping him. "What would I say? My cousin will surely send him a letter, and you will tell him everything else. He won't need to read anything from me." At the same time that he said the words, Bilbo felt himself agreeing with Bofur. He could write a small letter, just a note telling Thorin about his decision, maybe even ask Thorin a few questions. Just a little letter.

"Aye, aye," Bofur said teasingly, reading Bilbo's thoughts in his face, and Bilbo reached over without looking to shove his shoulder. "Hey! He wants to know how you're doing, and who better to tell him? I can send it off with my letter when the others go back. I think they'll be leaving at the end of the week, so just give it to me when it's ready, alright?" Bofur said, and Bilbo nodded, already wondering what he would say.

"I'll do that," he said, distracted as he thought about the letter, reaching up to touch the key beneath his shirt and wondering how Thorin would react to reading it. He did not see Bofur grinning at him, nor did he see Gandalf watching them from across the room. He thought of Thorin and all the questions he could ask in a letter, and he hoped that it would not be forward of him, to send a letter to a King.

~

That night Bilbo did not fall asleep quickly. Instead he lay in his nest of blankets, his parents' quilt pulled close to his chin, listening to the soft breaths of his cousins as they slept in his bed. His own 'bed' was just a pile of blankets, much like his sleeping place in Thorin's tent had been, but it reminded him quite a bit of his old cushion at the end of Azog's bed.

He thought of Azog often. Too often, he told himself frequently, trying to push the darkness out of his mind. Whenever he was alone, whenever he tried to fall asleep late at night, whenever he touched the rings hanging from his neck and let himself remember his seven years of hell.

Still he felt overwhelming relief, that Azog was dead and that he was no longer a slave. Azog haunted him, though, in his nightmares and memories. His life was so different now, that his life as _nûl-lûpûrz_ felt like a dream. But it was not a dream. Nothing from that life had been a dream, even though sometimes he wished, so badly, that it had all been nothing more than a terrible nightmare.

Azog's face, the last look Azog had given him before he died, his murmur of _my pain-bearer_ as he fell. How he had hated Azog -- and how much Azog's torments still haunted him. He was better now -- he could touch his siblings, hug them, roll around with them, could look adults in the eye without flinching, could handle any number of squealing, giggling children -- and he could hug Bofur, someone who was broader and taller than him.

But still he was afraid. Still he felt lost and alone. Life with Azog had been so different. By night, he had slept at Azog's side or feet, and by day, he had visited the Hobbits and sat with them. Now -- he did much of the same during the day, now with his family and the children who made him happy, but by night -- he was alone. He no longer had to fear someone reaching out and pulling him with clawed hands into an embrace he hated. He no longer had to listen to his master's breathing, to figure out whether his master had fallen asleep already.

He had only himself, and now his cousins, who had no idea how much their soft breaths and snores sometimes terrified him.

 _That_ was why he would always be alone. Why he would never marry, or become a comfortable bachelor with a lovely neighbor he would visit frequently, or ever fall in love again. He could handle clasping arms with Bofur or sitting with children snoozing on his chest or shoving Otho and Drogo into a pile of snow. He could handle talking with random people or eating in a room full of loud, gossipy Hobbits. He could handle hugging his male cousins, who were just as tall as him.

But he did not think he could handle sleeping with another person again. Soft kisses, holding hands, flirting even -- it was beyond him now. He could handle children and family, and friendly people like Bofur and Gandalf, but there was nothing else.

Maybe this letter to Thorin -- maybe it would be good for him. When Thorin responded -- _if_ Thorin responded -- maybe he could use it, to teach himself how to get to know someone again. He would like to know Thorin better, truly, and it was not _actually_ meeting him -- so he was still keeping his promise.

Maybe if he talked about Azog a bit -- not in this letter, maybe in a later one, if Thorin responded -- he would be able to get past the memories that haunted him. Would Thorin think badly of him, for using the Dwarf in such a way? Perhaps he should simply write in a journal.

Yet Bilbo _wanted_ to speak to Thorin again. He wanted to know more about the enemy of the Defiler, the Dwarf who had saved his life and changed his future. Not just through Bofur's stories, but by interacting with Thorin himself. He would at least be honest with Thorin, and maybe -- hopefully -- Thorin would write back to him.

Otho began to snore, and Bilbo sighed to himself, reaching up to touch his necklace. He stroked the rings for a moment, but soon his fingers found the key, his fingertips pressing into the carved lines, a motion so familiar that he did it without thinking. He knew those ridges and angles by heart, now -- the key was often in his hands when he sat alone with his thoughts. It comforted him, when nothing else could.

Sometimes he would touch the rings, too, when his thoughts were darkest, but he would think of his promise, of the feeling of seeing light again for the first time in many years, of that first night he had slept outside of Azog's room and had wandered into Thorin's attention. Still his depression crippled him, but he was getting better -- wasn't he? Sometimes he could not tell.

Otho's snoring was distracting, but it did remind him that this was not Azog's room. Azog had never snored. So Bilbo let himself drift, holding onto the key of promise, and soon he slept, dreaming of adventure and a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Never fear, this story just won't stop! I can't believe we've actually hit Chapter 20. I remember when these were tiny posts on the kink meme. Good gosh how far we've gone.
> 
> I've got a new and wonderful team of betas and muses, and many, many thanks to them: theaspetta and eaivalefay!
> 
> Thank you for your amazing support! I read every comment, sparkle over every fanart, and appreciate every kudos, bookmark, reblog, and basically anything you do to let me know you like the story. You guys are amazing. ;_; Thank you!!!!


	21. Good-byes and promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to remind everyone: Bilbo is 40 years old. Rory is 28. Drogo is 22. Otho is 20. The age Hobbits become adults in the eyes of society is 33, so Drogo and Otho are both very young, even younger than Pippin was when he went with Frodo (28, the same age as Rory). Hobbits age slower than Men, so you can think of them as teenage boys.

When Bilbo thought about it later, he could not help but notice how easily everything fell together. Gandalf's arrival, Bofur's offer, even how the Great Meeting ended. Bilbo himself was not at the meeting on its last day, but Fortinbras told him later that Great Aunt Adaldrida herself had stood up and terrified an entire room of grumpy, anxious Hobbits into agreeing to make an agreement, not letting even her terrible cough stop her from scolding the oldest, proudest, and sturdiest of the Shire. The agreement itself only took an hour to make, and it was thus:

Nearly all of the Hobbits were going to leave the Shire. Some would stay and live in Bree alongside the Men who stayed there, and it was mostly Hobbits who were too stubborn to leave, or too ill or old to make the journey. Everyone else had, shockingly, agreed to leave, and it had left everyone reeling with the finality of their decision.

Fortinbras had offered to send someone ahead, to speak to this Beorn and determine a location to start their new home. Then, after packing up everything they could, the Hobbits would follow, hopefully to arrive by the end of summer, so that they could build homes for the winter. Despite the loss of so many, there were still good workers and masters of skills that would be very important in building a new life for their people. All they needed was a little help, and some time.

With these things in mind, Fortinbras and Bilbo sat in the Thain's office a week after Gandalf had arrived, both staring down at a map of the continent, their gazes fixed on the Anduin River. 

"So everything is settled then?" Bilbo murmured, and Fortinbras nodded, reaching out to touch the map and pointing at the Anduin Vale.

"Yes. I trust your judgment, Bilbo. You've always been the most knowledgeable of our cousins, and you know the history of that place better than anyone. You will be fine, especially if you have Gandalf with you. Not to mention the Dwarves will come running if you so much as crook a finger," Fortinbras said, looking over at Bilbo with a grin.

Bilbo snorted, his gaze flitting past the Anduin River to a single mountain above the Greenwood forests, recalling the letter he had written a week ago. "You've been at the pipes for too long again, haven't you? I will ask them for help, to be sure... if we cannot handle it ourselves."

Fortinbras smiled at him. "I was shocked when the Dwarves came forward to help. The Big Folk, too... even those mysterious Rangers! I always thought the other Folk ignored us, but it's because of their kindness that we've made it this far. Without that food..." His gaze grew dark briefly, but his smile widened after a moment. "We've been very lucky, Bilbo. Let us hope that luck follows us to the Vale."

Bilbo nodded in agreement, leaning back in his chair and thinking of all that he still needed to do -- which was really not very much, as most everything had already been packed. All he needed were his traveling companions and supplies, and the supplies he would buy at the towns of Men along the way.

"Have you decided who will accompany you?" Fortinbras asked, tapping the map, and Bilbo nodded.

"Bofur has said he will escort me there, and I want to ask Gandalf if he will come with us. I really want to bring Rory, but I've yet to ask his parents... and I think I should bring Drogo and Otho, too. I think they need to get away from here. They're too angry, too... raw, from everything. Maybe this will help them. Maybe they can use their anger to help me find us a new home. They are so young, though... even Rory isn't an adult, and yet I want to take them all on this journey. Is it selfish that I want them with me?" Bilbo took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"I worry about this, Fort. I'm going to find our new home. _Me_ , Bilbo Baggins. What if -- what if I get it all wrong? What if there is a better place, but I don't find it? What if we don't like it? What if it never feels like home... like the Shire as it was?" He fell silent for a long moment, his gaze dark. "Will this even help us heal?" he asked softly, and Fortinbras did not respond at first.

"We can only try, cousin. That's all we have left. We're not weaklings, not like the Big Folk think. We got through the Fell Winter, and we got through Shirefall. We will get through this, too, and we will have a better life in the Vale. It will never be the Shire -- but our forefathers lived there once... they must have loved it at one time, and so shall we. We will _make_ a home there, and we _will_ be happy, Bilbo," Fortinbras said, meeting Bilbo's eyes.

Bilbo felt a shiver run up his spine, and he thought for a moment that he understood why his kin had made Fortinbras Thain. He gave Fortinbras a small smile, and his cousin grinned back at him.

"So all you really need to do now is --"

But whatever Bilbo needed to do, he did not find out, because then the door burst open and Gandalf strolled in, grey robes brushing against the doorway as he ducked and smiled benevolently at Fortinbras and Bilbo, who gave him identical blank stares.

"Fortinbras! Bilbo, my boy! Good, good, I am glad I caught you both together -- what an auspicious surprise that is! You see, I have quite the topic to discuss with the both of you, about the matter of the meeting, and of an _adventure_. You see, I was at the meeting, and I would like to help -- that is, to accompany whomever goes on this journey! Indeed, I actually have a particular Hobbit in mind already," he said, his gaze cutting to Bilbo, who felt rather bemused by his appearance.

"Actually," Fortinbras started, but Gandalf hurried on.

"I would like to propose Mister Baggins here! I think he would be a fine choice for this journey! An adventure, even, and I'd say that Mister Baggins should enjoy getting out into the world. I would personally escort him myself, you can be sure of that, and --"

"Gandalf," Bilbo interjected before Gandalf could bluster on anymore, a smile twitching at his lips, "I've already decided to go to the Vale. So you will come with me?"

"Oh," Gandalf said, caught off guard, and then he smiled and reached up to stroke his beard. "Is that so? Good, good! That was... easier than I thought it would be."

Bilbo hid a smile, but before he could respond to Gandalf, the door opened again, and in stormed Rory, with Mirabella Brandybuck following him with a deep frown.

"Rorimac Brandybuck! You cannot just charge into the Thain's office, it's not proper --"

"Oh, who cares about propriety, he's my cousin! Fort! I want to talk to you about Bilbo --" Rory shouted, then faltered when he spotted Bilbo sitting in the chair across from Fortinbras, stopping suddenly.

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, and Rory turned pink, before clearing his throat and walking up to the desk. Fortinbras gave him a level look, but his eyes were twinkling, just as Gandalf's were.

"Fortinbras, I want to request permission to go the Vale with Bilbo. I know he's leaving, and I want to go with him. I've got to! He can't go alone, I'm not letting him go back into those caves without me, and -- and he can't just go on an adventure like this, not without his best friend! It's not right! Even if it's just the two of us, between us we've got enough for a whole Took, and you always need a Took for an adventure. Right?" Rory pleaded, pressing his hands to the table and leaning forward to look at Fortinbras. Behind him, Mirabella rolled her eyes, her expression turning resigned, while Bilbo turned away to huff a small laugh.

"Have you talked to your parents?" Fortinbras asked after a moment, and Rory twitched, glancing back at his mother.

Mirabella stepped up beside him and looked at her nephew sternly. "He's been pleading with us all week about it, but I have reservations, Fortinbras. Bilbo _is_ going to the Vale, right? Who is going with him?" she asked.

"Well," Fortinbras said, gesturing to Gandalf, "we have Gandalf here, and Bofur the Dwarf has offered to escort them. That's it, really, Aunt Mirabella."

Mirabella gave Gandalf a considering look, and Gandalf smiled beatifically back at her. "My dear Mirabella," he said, bowing, and she smiled a bit.

"If Gandalf is taking them, then it's alright. And I trust Bilbo," Mirabella said, and Rory gave a loud shout, reaching out to grip Bilbo's shoulder.

"Did you hear that, Bilbo?"

Mirabella turned around suddenly and gave both of them a fierce look, making both young Hobbits freeze. "But so have me, Rorimac Brandybuck, if you step a toe out of line while you are under Bilbo's care -- and _he_ is an adult, unlike you! -- then I will know! So you had better listen to your cousin, and be a good boy, and _not_ get into any trouble!" she scolded. Both Bilbo and Rory nodded quickly to appease her, and her expression softened.

"Well, if that's that --" Fortinbras started.

But that was not that, as once again the door suddenly opened, and Drogo and Otho both rushed into the room, followed by Linda Proudfoot, who seemed exasperated with them. Both boys had determined expressions, which made Bilbo sigh inwardly. Fortinbras, Gandalf, and Mirabella all stared at them, while Rory began to grin.

"Fortinbras Took! We would like to speak with you --" Otho began, scowling.

"It's about our cousin Bilbo Baggins --" Drogo continued, pushing past Rory to frown at Fortinbras, not noticing his cousin at first.

"We know that he's leaving, and we want to go with him!" Otho said, though he turned his head and did a double take at seeing Bilbo there.

"We're not leaving him alone! He's our cousin, and we've promised to stay with him --" Drogo continued, and then he looked over and saw Bilbo staring at him, freezing.

"Bilbo's been looking out for us since he came home! We'll run away if we have to!" Otho declared, looking away from Bilbo and behind them, Linda gave a loud sigh.

"Drogo Baggins! Otho Sackville-Baggins! If you two would just listen to what I have to say --"

Both boys twitched and looked back at her briefly, before looking back at Fortinbras. "Please!" Drogo said, his frown fading, and Otho looked just as anxious.

Then they were both jerked back by their ears, as Linda stepped up to take them in hand. They both yelped, and Linda gave Fortinbras a long-suffering look, smiling in apology. "I am terribly sorry, Thain, for these boys and their rudeness. As I was trying to tell them, I would be happy to allow them to go with Bilbo on their journey!"

Otho and Drogo, who had been struggling beneath her iron grip, stilled and blinked at each other. "What?" they both said, and Bilbo's lips twitched, while Rory had to cover his mouth.

"Bilbo is a proper young Hobbit, and his father would be proud of him," Linda said, her gaze misting briefly and making Bilbo's chest ache. "Now, I've formally adopted both Drogo and Otho, for propriety's sake, but I understand all too well how they care for Bilbo, and I am _willing_ to allow them on this journey -- so long as they promise to be respectful and careful! Both of you are so young, but I believe Bilbo will watch after you both," she said, letting go of their ears and turning them to face her. Both Otho and Drogo were silent, staring at her with wide eyes, and Linda gave them both a smile. "You two will find a good home for all of us there, right?"

Otho and Drogo both nodded, stunned into silence, and Linda patted their cheeks. "You both are so young -- far too young!" she said, and Mirabella reached over to touch her shoulder. Linda gave her a misty smile, then turned to Bilbo, who stood to clasp her hands. "You'll watch them, won't you, Bilbo?" Linda asked, and Bilbo nodded solemnly.

"I'll protect them, Aunt Linda. All of them," he said, looking at Rory, Otho, and Drogo, his gaze softening as he looked upon his cousins, who had all promised to follow him. He worried, though, because of Otho and Drogo's youth, and Rory's temerity, and his own severe problems. But he would also have Gandalf, and Bofur, who would both watch over all of them.

A knock sounded at the door, and all of the Hobbits and one Wizard turned to look, a bit stunned that someone had actually knocked. Then Fortinbras stood and called out for the visitor to enter, and Bofur peeked in as the door opened, a grin appearing on his face when he saw everybody assembled.

"Here you are, Bilbo! And Gandalf, and the lads too!" the Dwarf said cheerfully, stepping into the room and nodding to Linda and Mirabella. "Ladies," he said, bowing slightly, and both of them smiled at his charm. "Thain, just wanted to let you know that I'm to accompany Mister Baggins on his journey! Er, I hope you've talked about that," he said a bit sheepishly, glancing at Bilbo who grinned at him.

"You always seem to arrive at precisely the right time, Bofur. It's been decided that I will go to the Vale, and my cousins here, Rory, Drogo, and Otho, will come with us, as will Gandalf. The Thain has given his blessing," Bilbo said, and Bofur cheered, while all three young Hobbits gave a whoop and clasped each other's shoulders in delight. Linda and Mirabella both shook their heads, but they were smiling.

Fortinbras looked upon the company of four Hobbits, one Dwarf, and one Wizard, a smile coming to his face. "It will take you a long time to get there, but be assured that we will follow, and quickly too. There's nothing left in the Shire for us," he said, his smile slowly fading, and everybody in the room nodded, solemn for a long moment. "The Vale will be a place of new beginnings. You will meet with Beorn and create a contract with him. Bilbo will see to the purchase of supplies -- food for the winter and such things. Don't worry, though -- I'll be sending many families along after you, pretty soon I should think, so you won't be alone there for long. Once everyone has gone, and everything left here has been settled, I will follow," Fortinbras finished, and Bilbo took a deep breath, while his family and friends nodded.

"Thank you, Fortinbras, for trusting me with this. We will not fail you," he said, giving Fortinbras a smile, who returned it.

"I know you will do great things, Bilbo Baggins. I wish you the best of luck," said the Thain of the Shire, and Bilbo Baggins nodded, determined to do right on this journey, for the future of his people.

~

The next day, Bilbo and his cousins had packed everything they could think to bring. Tomorrow, they would leave the Shire, never to see it again. It was late in the afternoon, and Bilbo had one last task to do, something that was very important to him, and something that would break his heart.

He had to tell the children he was leaving.

As he walked down the hall to the nursery for the last time, he heard the shrieks and giggling of the children, and their happy sounds made his heart sink. He would miss them fiercely, until everybody came to the Vale, and he worried about how they would fare without him, especially the quieter children who had been hurt. He had never fancied himself a father, but the orphaned children of the Shire had become quite dear to him, so much that he wished he was old enough to adopt them. There were other couples, other Hobbits who had taken responsibility for the orphans, so he did not need to worry about who would look after them. He would still _miss_ them, though.

Bilbo came to the nursery doors and paused just inside, watching the children as they played, Myrtle Burrows and the other minders chatting by the fireplace as they mended the small, colorful clothes the children wore and often tore. He caught sight of the six children who had just begun to act like proper fauntlings again, sitting on the edge of the crowd and playing with some cloth dolls, one of them reading a book -- and there was little May Grubb, sitting quietly while another girl braided her hair and chattered into her ear. He stood still for a moment, pride filling his chest at seeing May spending time with another girl, a girl who had not been hurt like her, and he smiled widely.

Then one of the children spotted him, and he called out a greeting to Bilbo, that was quickly echoed by several other high voices. Myrtle looked up and noticed him, a smile coming to her face, and she stood and set her sewing aside, walking over to meet him.

"Good afternoon, Bilbo. Have you come for a story? It's about that time, I should think," Myrtle said, her small wrinkles softening with her smile, and Bilbo returned the smile.

"Not quite... though, I have something to tell the children," Bilbo said meaningfully, and Myrtle's eyes widened as she understood. 

"Oh," she said softly, her gaze saddening a bit, but she nodded after a moment and turned to the room of children, who were watching them curiously. She clapped her hands loudly and called out, "Everybody! Bilbo's here to talk to you! Come on, let's sit in a circle, just like for story time," she said, and the children all giggled and ran over, sitting down in a wide circle. May Grubb and her friend came over, holding hands and sitting near the front, though far enough to the side that May could relax.

Bilbo smiled at the children and sat down in front of them, crossing his legs and taking a deep breath. Then he began to speak.

"All of you are small enough that in many years, you likely won't remember much of this place. That makes me very sad, because the Shire will always be a place that I love. I'm hoping, though, that the place where you will grow up will become as dear to you as the Shire is to me.

"You see, my dears, it has become too dark here. We have to leave this place, and go somewhere better, somewhere brighter, with green fields and different flowers and woods we have not yet explored. Somewhere where the sun always shines, except when it rains or snows. Somewhere you can all grow up and be happy. A new home, for all of us.

"Do you remember how we talked about responsibility last week? Well, I have a very big responsibility. It is my job to find that place. Tomorrow -- tomorrow... I will leave the Shire, and I will go to this new place, to find our new home. I shan't be taking any of you with me, but in a few months, you'll come join me. Then we will all work very hard together to make this new place very special for all of us," Bilbo said, and his chest ached when he saw the surprise on the children's faces, the beginnings of sulks, of denial, of objection.

But then May Grubb stood up. She let go of her friend's hand and walked over to Bilbo, reaching up to touch his cheeks with her small fingers, just at the height where they could look each other in the eye. She gazed at him solemnly, and behind her, the other children were quiet, watching curiously.

"Pain-bearer," May said softly, and the hairs on the back of Bilbo's neck stood up. He said nothing, staring back at May with wide eyes, stunned.

Then May's quiet expression melted into a smile, and she leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "Find a place with lots of flowers," she whispered, and then she let go of him and dashed back to stand against the wall, hugging herself.

Bilbo watched in amazement as the sulks, the pouts, and the frowns melted from the children's faces, and they began to shout over each other, waving their hands and calling out suggestions.

"Find a place with a big tree that we can climb!"

"Find a place with lots of frogs and fireflies, so we can chase them --"

"Find a place with a big pond! So we can go swimming!"

"Find a place with lots of mushrooms!"

"And Elves!"

"And Dwarves!"

"And --"

And Bilbo laughed, relieved as warmth spread through his chest, a fierce feeling touching him for a moment, that he had succeeded back in those dark halls -- that he had done well to protect these children and their innocence. He nodded to each suggestion, promising to do his best to find the perfect place for them, and then Myrtle stepped in and called for their attention, instructing them to begin cleaning up their toys so that they could have story time.

Bilbo stood up and went to stand by the wall, watching the children as they hurried about, gathering their messes with astonishing alacrity. Then he looked over, and he saw May and the five other quiet children watching him, and he read in their expressions a panicked sort of fear, for the future that they did not understand. He walked over and knelt down in front of them, and they watched him quietly, their mouths trembling as they tried to convey their emotions.

Bilbo reached out and mussed each child's hair, leaning down to kiss their curls and hugging each of them. "I am sorry I cannot take you with me," he said quietly. "But I _promise_ , my dears -- nothing will ever hurt you again. You like Miss Myrtle, right?" They all nodded slowly, and Bilbo smiled. "You know, if you ever have a bad dream, or you get scared, or if anything ever happens while I am not around, you can go to Miss Myrtle. She will always look after you, and she will keep you safe, until you come to our new home to be with me again. Okay?"

One of the two boys, tiny Hob Hayward with his pale curls, made a small noise. "Where are you going?" he asked quietly, eyes bright with tears.

Bilbo reached out to take his hand, squeezing his small fingers. "You remember the big mountains we left?" he said gently, and all of the children froze briefly, but Bilbo gave them such a big smile that they all relaxed a moment later. "Beyond those mountains, far to the east, there is a river, and around it is a beautiful valley, called the Anduin Vale. That is where I am going, and that is where you will go too," he said, and his expression became a little solemn. "You remember the Dwarves? They watch over those mountains now. All of those bad goblins are gone. So when you go, you won't find any nasty goblins -- only big, strong Dwarves, who will protect you if you get scared."

They all nodded, expressions brightening at the thought of Dwarves, and Bilbo knew they must be thinking of Bofur. He gave each of them another hug, and each child hugged him back tightly, sniffling into his neck and giving him soft kisses on his cheek. Bilbo leaned back after May stepped away, his gaze saddening. "You'll be good for Miss Myrtle, right?" he asked, and they all nodded once more. "Then go on, go get ready for story time. I'll see you in a few months, okay?" he said, and after hesitating, their eyes wide and dark, they nodded again and darted off to the other children.

Bilbo stood and watched them for a time, before he caught Myrtle's sad smile as she watched him. He walked over to meet her by the door, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"You be safe out there, Bilbo Baggins, you hear me?" Myrtle said, her voice trembling, and Bilbo nodded, his chest aching as he watched the children.

"Take care of them," he said, watching six of the children in particular, before squeezing her hand one last time and quietly leaving. The doors closed behind him, and Bilbo shuddered at the finality of the noise, hating himself for leaving the children who relied so much on him. He walked mindlessly through the halls, not meeting anybody's eyes as he thought of May's solemn gaze and little Hob's sniffles.

"Bilbo Baggins, you should answer when someone calls out to you!" said a familiar voice, and Bilbo looked up with a start, turning his head to look into the nearest room. There sat the old Mother Brandybuck, tucked into a large armchair with a heavy blanket over her tiny body, though her expression was as severe as ever as she stared at him. Bilbo smiled and walked over to the door, and impatiently, she beckoned him closer, so he went obediently and sat on the ottoman at her feet.

"I'm sorry, Great Aunt Adaldrida. I was lost in thought and didn't hear you. How do you feel?" he asked, taking her small, wrinkled hand in his and holding it gently.

Adaldrida snorted at him, but she softened enough that her scowl faded to a frown. "I feel old, Bilbo, old and decrepit. I'm going to die soon," she declared, and Bilbo inhaled sharply.

"Please don't say things like that," he said quietly, but Adaldrida clucked her tongue at him.

"I've lived a long life, my dear boy. I'm one hundred and twelve -- quite old enough to speak my mind, I should say," she said, and then she began to cough, great hacking noises that hurt Bilbo's ears. He fetched a cup of water and handed it to her, and she sipped it slowly, scowling at the cup. "This cough is dreadful, and I'll be glad to be done with it."

Bilbo stayed quiet, hating the thought of her death, and after a moment Adaldrida looked at him, her expression softening. She reached up to cup his cheek, and he looked at her with dark eyes, remembering all the times she took care of him, how she always looked after him and Rory in those dark halls. How her support had held him together during those long years of pain.

"Do you think you have enough time for one last adventure, Great Aunt?" Bilbo asked, breathing in deeply. "Maybe you could come with me and Rory?" He tried to say more, but Adaldrida shook her head.

"You're a sweet boy, my dear Bilbo," Adaldrida said, smiling at him and patting his cheek. "You go on your adventure, and find us all a nice place to settle down. Oh... but I will miss the Shire," she said softly, looking out the window and watching the yellowed grasses sway in the wind. Bilbo watched her, taking the cup and setting it aside, grief welling up in his chest as he allowed himself to see how quickly she was fading away.

She looked tiny, so much smaller than he had ever seen her. Her skin was pale with sickness, and he could see that her handkerchief was dark with rusty-grey phlegm. She had dark circles under her eyes, but still her gaze glittered with life, with old memories that he would never know, would never understand.

Bilbo sat with Adaldrida for a long time, and neither of them said anything else, simply enjoying each other's presence. They were family, no matter how little blood they shared, and Bilbo would miss her dearly. Adaldrida seemed to doze off, so Bilbo tucked the quilt closer around her and leaned over to kiss her forehead, wondering if he would even see her in a few months. He immediately hated the thought and pushed it out of his mind, promising her silently that she would see the Vale for herself. She had earned it, more than any of them.

"Good-bye, Great Aunt Adaldrida. I love you," Bilbo said against her skin, and Adaldrida sighed softly, murmuring something under her breath. He smiled sadly and stood, quietly leaving the room and closing the door behind him, feeling raw from seeing her in such a way.

Without meeting anybody else, he escaped to his room and sat for a long time on his bed, turning over the key and rings in his hands, his cheeks wet. When his cousins knocked on his door, calling him to dinner, he carefully wiped his face and rubbed at his eyes, and if he did not quite look Rory in the face when he opened the door, Rory said nothing of it.

Dinner was a loud affair, as everybody chatted about Bilbo's journey and the Vale. After dinner, the Hobbits came together to give him a toast, and afterwards, Bilbo was visited by nearly all of the former slaves, who all held his hands, kissed his cheeks, or hugged him, wishing him the best of luck quietly, their gazes as solemn as May Grubb's had been. Bilbo held onto them tightly, until at last the last of his well-wishers left.

Rory, Drogo, and Otho all sat around him, each of them lingering before they would retire to bed. None of them wanted to sleep quite yet, not looking forward to their last night in the Shire, and so they stayed in the dining hall for quite some time. Rory and Bilbo each had ale, and Otho did his best to convince them to let him have some, while Drogo tried not to look eager for the same. Bilbo tried to look admonishing when Rory gave in, but both of the older Hobbits let out peals of laughter at the expressions on Otho's and Drogo's faces upon sipping the ale. One of the cooks brought them a plate of small pies, and they took extra time in savoring the sweet treat, each imagining that it would be a long time before they would have another home-cooked Hobbit meal like this.

Finally, though, Bilbo felt his eyelids grow heavy, and he frowned at his cousins. "Off to bed with the lot of you," he said, and Rory, Otho, and Drogo all groaned, but they stood obediently and stumbled out of the hall to Bilbo's room. Inside his room, Drogo and Otho crawled into their shared bed, and Rory fell down on his back on Bilbo's makeshift pallet, making Bilbo frown at him.

"You can't sleep in your own room now?" he asked, and Rory snorted and gave him a grin.

"Don't you want to cuddle with me, cousin Bilbo?" he giggled, and Bilbo rolled his eyes and sat down with a huff beside him.

"If you smother me in my sleep, I'll have Bofur sit on you tomorrow," he threatened, but Rory only snickered and pulled him down. Bilbo acquiesced while rolling his eyes, turning on his side to sleep. Rory poked him in the back a few times, making Bilbo swat at him, and they heard giggling from the bed, but soon it grew quiet, and after a time, Bilbo heard the soft snores of his cousins.

But Bilbo did not fall asleep easily. He laid there in the darkness and worried, thinking of how they would leave and where they would go, trying desperately _not_ to think about the fact that they would go back into Moria. He thought of Gandalf and his promise to protect them, of Bofur and his promise to guide them, and of his own promises to everybody he was leaving.

He thought of Thorin. He thought of the letter he had written a week ago, that was on its way to Azog's old halls, where Thorin was waiting. He had tried to keep the letter polite, distant, like that of an acquaintance, but all too easily had he spilled out his worries to Thorin, each word flowing easily onto the paper as he imagined Thorin's solemn gaze watching him. Thorin, who paid attention to his worries and listened to him, who would hopefully accept his thanks and apologies.

He usually thought about the Dwarf King during these idle hours, when he was halfway between sleep and waking. In the quiet of the night, he let himself remember -- those horrific moments caught in Azog's grip, the look in Thorin's eyes when he saw his axe raised above Azog's head, the feeling of Thorin's hand on the back of his neck as he cried, the peace when he sat in Thorin's tent, alive and free.

He hoped -- he wished -- he would like it if Thorin responded to his letter. Perhaps, after he had settled his family and kin, he might take up Bofur's offer and visit Erebor. He was healthier now, no longer so thin, no ribs showing beneath his shirt. He still had his scars, but Óin's salves had done wonders on his skin, even the deepest scar on his stomach, the skin softer and less rigid now, less obvious in how they had been made. After he found the Vale, after they settled into a new life -- maybe he could travel, see more of the world.

Rory's warmth behind him was lulling, and Bilbo realized that he was actually sharing his bed with someone. It was only Rory, someone he trusted implicitly, and his cousin beside -- but it was something, a step forward, and he was proud of himself for a moment. He thought of little May Grubb and how she was talking to other girls now, of tiny Hob Hayward who had said not a word for four years before this past spring. Slowly, carefully -- all of them were healing.

Vaguely Bilbo wondered if they might see some Elves on the journey. He had always liked Elves, having read countless stories about them, but he knew of their antipathy with the Dwarves, and he wondered at that old history. He should grab a book or two before he left, to read on the journey... he would have to visit the library rather early, and surely they would not mind if he took out a few books on Dwarf and Elf history...

Bilbo was asleep before he realized he had drifted off, curled up beside the warmth of his cousin, dreaming of faraway places with golden fields and lonely mountains that rose over deep green forests.

~

The next morning, Bilbo rose very early, first sneaking into the library, then coming back and waking his cousins. He helped them get ready, pushing their vests and waistcoats into their hands, chiding them as they rubbed sleep from their eyes. When the four of them were dressed, they all walked out to the dining hall, where six places had been set for a lovely breakfast. Bofur was already there with Gandalf, chatting with the Wizard who looked rather cheerful and awake for the early hour, and the six of them sat together, eating their last meal before they would leave. They would pick up supplies in Bree, then more in further towns along the East-West Road.

Soon enough, they were all standing outside, with their families waiting as they made last-minute adjustments to the cart. Bofur had somehow procured two ponies, which would pull the cart of their belongings. Bilbo had gathered the books and items he had taken from Bag End, along with all of their clothes and the few items his cousins wanted to bring. They had little else, but it was enough to fill the cart, while leaving room for all of them to sit if they wanted. Bofur would drive the ponies, and Bilbo chose to sit beside him. Gandalf, curiously, had a proper horse to ride.

They hugged their relatives closely and said good-bye, then climbed onto the cart and began to roll down the road, listening to the well-wishes of their family. Primula ran beside the cart for a while, begging Bilbo and Rory to be safe, but soon she fell back, waving frantically. Then Tuckborough began to disappear, and they came to the road proper. Bree was nearly a week of travel away, and it would be another three weeks of travel, if they paced themselves well, to reach the Misty Mountains.

Bilbo had walked this road once before, coming into the Shire last autumn, and he felt a strange sense of acceptance as they rode down the road that was littered with small rocks and weeds. All around them, he could see what was left of the Shire, the hills yellowed and grey, the trees no longer flowering or sprouting leaves. It was a Shire that had fallen to darkness, and it was a Shire they would leave behind, never to be seen again.

He would not miss this Shire. He would miss the Shire of his childhood, and for a moment he longed for the whispering trees, the bright green fields, the cheerful flowers and fertile land that had gifted the Hobbits so much. This place had been perfect, but no more.

 _Good-bye,_ he thought, gazing at the Shire, and the wind touched his face, one last gentle breeze, as if to say the same.

Hours passed, and the day grew to evening. As they neared the Brandywine River, the bridge rose up in front of them, and all of the Hobbits took a breath, knowing that this was the edge of their world. Otho and Drogo had never been beyond this point, and though Rory had lived just beyond the river in Buckland, neither he nor Bilbo had ever left the Shire before their kidnapping almost eight years ago. All they knew of that unknown world was pain and terror, and for a moment, the Hobbits did not want to leave.

Bofur glanced over at Bilbo, whose knuckles were white as he clutched the seat below him. He remembered being dragged across this bridge eight years ago, holding onto his mother in desperation. Then Bofur reached over and nudged Bilbo, who looked over at him in surprise.

"Ready, Bilbo?" asked Bofur, and Bilbo glanced back past the cart, at the Shire that was, thinking of the Shire that had been and of the Vale that was to be. He looked back at Bofur and smiled, looking forward, feeling hopeful.

"I'm ready," he said, and at that moment, the clouds drifted apart, enough for the sun to shine down upon them, warming Bilbo's face and making all of them smile. Then Bofur nudged the ponies forward, and they began to cross the river into the unknown.

~

Many leagues away, deep in a lonely mountain that rose far above the forests of Greenwood, surrounded by golden hills with gently waving white flowers, there was a spacious room filled with books and a large desk where an older golden-haired Dwarf sat, writing quietly. At another table, another Dwarf sat, younger and looking much like the older Dwarf at the desk. He wore royal Durin blue and had many weapons strapped to his stout body, with an ease that spoke of his expertise with the weapons, and of his skill as a warrior. Despite the numerous weapons on his body, he looked relaxed as he sat at a large table covered in scrolls and maps, studying under his uncle's tutelage, early in the day before court began. He was Fíli, heir to the throne of Erebor, and at the desk sat his uncle Frerin, steward in name while his brother the King was away at war.

A messenger knocked and came into the room, and Fíli was handed a scroll with a royal blue ribbon. Fíli took the scroll and began to read, and his blue eyes brightened with joy. He turned his head to shout, and his long golden braids flew as he jumped up. "Kíli! Uncle Frerin! Uncle Thorin's coming home!" he called, and there came a shout of surprise, before his brother ran into the room, stumbling in his haste to hear more of the news. 

At the desk, Frerin looked up in surprise, before a smile blossomed on his handsome face, while the youngest looked on eagerly. That Dwarf was Kíli, the youngest of the line of Durin, and he was dark-haired and bright-eyed, but sadly missing a beard, stubble showing his age, though like his brother, he had an air of experience and knowledge about him.

"What does it say? Uncle Thorin's coming home?" Kíli asked, excited, and Fíli gave him a fond scowl.

"That's what I just said, isn't it?"

"Bring it here, Fíli," said Frerin, and Fíli obediently walked over and handed him the scroll, while Kíli came to crowd at his side. Frerin was a tall Dwarf, much like his older brother, with a long golden beard and thick braids beside his ears, his long hair pulled back in a thick plait. He was just as handsome as his brother, but he carried an air of solemnity, just as serious as his brother, if not a little sad, deep in his blue gaze.

Frerin smiled, though, when he read the news. "Thorin is on his way from Khazad-dûm. He plans to meet Beorn the Shifter on his way, and then he will come directly home, so long as he is not distracted by Elves or Orcs," he said, and Kíli let out a whoop, which Frerin discouraged with a look.

"Shouldn't you be with Dwalin?" Frerin said with raised eyebrows, and Kíli twitched, his eyes shifting away from his uncle's knowing gaze.

"He said he was busy this morning, so we're training later. I was studying! Don't give me that look, uncle," Kíli said plaintively, opening his blue eyes wide. 

"Kíli," Frerin said sternly, and Kíli gave a sigh.

"Yes, uncle. Can I go tell mother now? Surely she would like to hear of Uncle Thorin's return!"

Frerin only gave him an exasperated look, and Fíli had to hide a smirk as Kíli made his escape as quickly as he had come, going to find their mother Dís, who was likely at the Central Guild this early in the morning. He took the scroll from Frerin and read through it again, his mouth twitching into a smile.

"I will be glad when he is home again," Fíli said, and Frerin nodded thoughtfully, his expression smoothing. "Dwalin has told many stories about the war, but I would like to hear them from Thorin's mouth. Especially about that battle with Azog! He knew the Hobbit involved, didn't he?" Fíli asked.

"Yes, I would like to hear about it, too," Frerin said, though Fíli was sure that Frerin had already interrogated Dwalin about every detail from every moment of the war march. His uncle was nothing if not thorough.

Fíli was just as excited as his brother about Thorin's return, though he contained it much better than Kíli did. It _would_ be good to see Thorin again. He had missed his uncle, these long years without him, though he had been proud and excited when Dwalin and the army had returned with news of Thorin's victory. Fíli hoped to travel to see Khazad-dûm one day, to see the place of battle himself and to walk the halls of his forefathers. He knew that his brother was more interested in the tactical side of the battle, while Fíli himself longed to know about the history of that long untouched place.

He looked forward to when Thorin rode through the gates. Once the news spread, the entire kingdom would begin preparing for their King's return. Thorin was coming home!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it? I just reached over 100K words! Thank you for all of the amazing responses and reads! You guys are amazing!!! Also, thank you to theaspetta and eaivalefay, my lovely beta readers!
> 
> To those worried about the action content, never fear -- the pacing of this story is deliberate, and there will be quite a bit of action soon. This is not only an physical journey for Bilbo, but also an emotional journey, and a long enough one that it may seem slow at times. There are long plots being woven through this piece, so I ask for your patience. Thank you!


	22. A letter from the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this chapter! In a previous chapter, I mentioned that Frerin dealt with the guilds of Erebor. I have since changed this to Dís. 
> 
> **Trigger warning** : This chapter contains some mentions of violence and horror.

A week later, outside an inn at the edge of Bree, Bilbo was helping Bofur carry bags of apples and potatoes to the cart. They had new waterskins and feed for the ponies, as well as jerky and spices that Bilbo himself had chosen, and a few early spring vegetables that he had not been able to resist buying. The stall owner had given him a good price, too, and had whispered over the exchange of radishes that she had always liked Hobbits and wished them the best of luck. The kindness had more than made up for the overpriced sausages that Otho had found halfway down the street.

At the moment, Rory, Drogo, and Otho were not speaking to each other, having gotten into a rather loud argument once Bilbo had told Otho how much he could have saved them. Otho was sulking and had turned away from the others, while Rory glared at the back of his head and Drogo looked disgruntled. Bilbo had heard the shouting -- 

_"You can't go buying every tasty morsel you find! We've got to be smart about our coins, you fat-headed brat --"_

_"Don't call him that! Like you would know any better!"_

_"Yeah, I saw you looking at the weed earlier, Rory! Come here and show me your pockets, you big-mouthed hypocrite --"_

\-- and he wanted nothing to do with it, so he had chosen to help Bofur. As he set the last bag on the cart, he looked to see Bofur holding up a length of rope. With a smile, he took one end of the rope, and the two of them tied down the bags, then slid the wall of the cart back into place and stood back. Now they were supplied and ready to go.

"Rory, Otho, Drogo -- we're leaving," Bilbo called, and the three boys gave each other sour looks before grudgingly approaching the cart. Gandalf was nowhere to be seen, but Bilbo knew he was inside the inn, carrying on some mysterious business.

While Rory, Otho, and Drogo attempted to claim spots without speaking a word to each other, Bilbo patted the neck of one of the ponies, rolling his eyes to himself and turning his gaze to watch the street. He had been to Bree only twice before his return to the Shire last October, but he had heard of it from his Took and Brandybuck aunts and uncles, who had gone through Bree more than a few times in their lives. 

The town he had heard about in his youth had been quiet but cheerful, with Men and Hobbits sharing wares and tables in friendship and trade. Bree was still quiet now, but it was stilted and anxious, just as the Shire was. Bree had been ravaged by Orcs during Shirefall, and there were not nearly as many Men as Bilbo had imagined. Many buildings were damaged or boarded up with thick planks of wood, and he had heard in the inn's pub that many families had gone to Archet and Combe, or even further south to the larger cities of Men.

Hobbits were still welcome here, still considered good neighbors by the Bree-men, but Bilbo saw many people eyeing them with concern. Likely the news of the Hobbits' decision had already spread, and Bilbo suspected that rumors had reached Bree before they had even arrived, once the Great Meeting had ended.

He wondered what would happen to Bree. The Hobbits who had refused to leave were moving to Bree, but what kind of life would they have here? Bree seemed like a sad place to live, just as the Shire was now.

Bilbo was distracted from his thoughts by a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see Bofur standing beside him.

"Before we head off into the wild, Bilbo, I've something to give you," Bofur said, and Bilbo blinked at him, nonplussed.

"Bofur, you needn't give me anything," Bilbo said, curious and a little embarrassed. Bofur had already done so much for him! But Bofur shook his head and reached into one of his many pockets, pulling out a small but fine one-bladed axe, its wooden handle wrapped in thick blue leather, the blade carved with Dwarven knots that, upon closer look, were revealed to be leafy vines. Bilbo stared at the axe in shock, and Bofur held it out, waiting until Bilbo hesitantly took it.

He lifted the axe and looked at it admiringly, finding that the weight of it was nothing like he had imagined. It fit into his hand rather well, and he realized how small it was, compared to the axe that rested on Bofur's back. He wondered why on earth Bofur had given it to him, and he looked up at his friend in confusion, trying to find the words to ask.

Bofur's eyes were twinkling, and he had a small smile on his face. "Every Dwarf worth his salt carries an axe with him, whether it be a war axe or a tool like this. I didn't make the axe myself, I'm not that good at smithing, but one of the Dwarves who stayed with us this winter made it at my request. Nordi, his name was. Anyway, I made that handle, and I found the leather for it here, as well as some more for a sheath," Bofur said, holding up a cover that would fit over the blade, in the same blue leather.

"Bofur," Bilbo said, his eyes wide, "I can't -- I don't know how to use an axe. This is too much!"

Bofur grinned at him. "You can't take it back, I've already given it to you, and anyone can use an axe! It will make a fine tool for you on the road, and now you're almost a proper Dwarf, see?"

Bilbo immediately objected, but Bofur bore his flustered attempts to return the axe with a bright grin that made Bilbo's stomach churn with happiness. 

"Well, if you insist, I suppose... thank you, Bofur," Bilbo finally said, and Bofur beamed at him. "I suppose this is what you were busy with?"

"Aye, wanted to get it done before the lads left for home. I'll show you some neat tricks for it once we get on the road proper," Bofur said, and Bilbo sighed, a smile touching his face.

"Thank you," he said, and he gave Bofur a short bow, then went to tuck the axe, now sheathed, carefully into his bag. When Bilbo turned back, all three of his cousins were leaning over the side of the cart, watching the two of them with far too much interest, the sour expressions from their fight long gone.

"What about us? You can't spoil Bilbo and leave us wanting," Rory said, a cheeky grin appearing on his face, and Bilbo covered his face with one hand, while Bofur roared with laughter.

"Haven't forgotten about you lads! Found you these," Bofur said genially, pulling out three small daggers and holding them out to the three boys, who clamored off the cart to receive them. Bilbo was pleased when all three thanked Bofur profusely, but he felt a headache form as he watched them lean close to each other to compare their new tools, wondering how long the peace would last. Bofur grinned as he watched them, while Bilbo rolled his eyes.

"Incorrigible," he muttered, and Bofur smirked.

"At least they're not fighting anymore," he muttered to Bilbo, who snorted and had to turn away when Rory gave them a suspicious look.

Then Gandalf strode out of the inn, and he glanced curiously at the three Hobbit boys as he ambled over. "Whatever are you all standing around for?" he asked, and he did not understand why Bilbo and Bofur groaned at the same time and began to laugh a moment later.

Soon, though, they were off, leaving behind the quiet town of Bree and riding off toward the looming Misty Mountains.

~

Thorin rarely saw visions during his sleep, but two nights before he left Khazad-dûm for Erebor, he had a long dream.

_A young dwarf of the ancient halls turned new, he stood at his father the king's leisure and listened to the tale of their creator Mahal. Their father's father had crafted them from stone itself, strong children to tend to the stone of the world. They all had an old memory -- that they were once much **more**. Their father told them that once, they had two hearts that beat as one, but the father of their father's father told him that for the dwarves to have life, they must be struck in half. So they were, and so came the promise of a match to every dwarf -- a promise that every dwarf would not have to die alone, as they were born._

_So their father the King of Dwarves told them, and so the young dwarf believed. He took up the axe and the hammer as his father's father taught them. He studied the craft of his people. He fell in love with gold and its glimmer in the dark caves where they dwelt. He worked, and he crafted, and he created beautiful things -- but he was always alone._

_Then he was older. Then he began to feel the darkness of death, and he feared. He went to his father who was deathless and he asked, 'You said I would not die alone. You said I would meet my match. Where are they?'_

_His father the deathless looked upon him and touched his brow, where silver had begun to gather. 'Did you ever seek your match?' his father the deathless asked, and the dwarf said no. 'How will you find your match, if you never look for them?'_

_And the dwarf understood. He left his father who had guided him in all things, and he walked the great Halls of Dwarves, which wove through the mountains that parted the great land. Years passed. He met many dwarves and made many friends, but he never met his match -- until one day, he left the dark halls, drawn by a light at the edge of the hall._

_He left the cave and walked out into the sunlight, and there was a green valley near the mountains, where dwarves with no beards walked. He approached them, and they smiled at him and welcomed him. He asked them, 'Why do you not walk in the halls of our father?' but the beardless dwarves only looked at him in confusion. They did not know his father, and the dwarf wondered if they were not his kin after all._

_'How did you come here?' he asked next, and they told him that they were born from the earth. They had no mother or father as he had, but they had an old memory, of being much more than they were before they were struck in half. This startled the dwarf, who shared that old memory, who knew the old story and understood the old way -- but these were not dwarves, so how could they know of it?_

_But he knew that his father's father had a wife who loved the earth, and he wondered. But he would never know, because his father's father had left their world long ago. He could only suppose._

_He wondered about these beardless dwarves, who did not call themselves dwarves -- who did not call themselves anything, really. They spent their days nurturing the earth and harvesting good foods, and at night they slept in holes that were small but warm. They were a kind people, and the dwarf liked them very much._

_When he had eaten his fill, the dwarf realized that several more of the hole-dwellers had joined them, and he looked at them in curiosity. They were all laughing, talking, enjoying the warm weather and the fruits of their labor, and the dwarf saw in them a love for song and good cheer. He leaned forward, to share his love of gold, to tell them of his father who reigned king in the halls of the mountains -- and his eyes met the eyes of one of the small creatures who had joined them._

_Everything else faded away. All he could see was those eyes._

_The greyest of blues, the shadow of silver beneath the glow of a lamp, and the dwarf was lost. He did not understand why he could not look away. The other person did not look away either, and for a long moment, they could only stare at each other._

_Then he understood, and he felt relieved, that his long search was over. He would not die alone. He reached out his hand, and a warm brown hand took hold of his fingers, and the dwarf **knew**_ \--

And Thorin woke, confused and breathless, staring into the darkness of his chamber and feeling bereft. What had he dreamt?

He stumbled to the table where his water pitcher rested, and greedily he drank a full glass, until his heart stopped racing and his breathing was even. He stared down at the table, not seeing it as he remembered the dream. He clenched his hand, still feeling the warmth of the hand pressing into it, but no -- it was only his imagination. There was no warmth there.

Such an impossible dream. Could it have been from a ghost of these halls? A warning, perhaps? The call of gold had been on his mind often as of late -- was some remnant of his ancestors warning him against his fears?

And those small, beardless creatures -- he thought they might have been Hobbits, of all things. Such a strange dream. He had heard stories before, of Hobbits and Dwarves being friendly to each other long ago, but to find one's match in a Hobbit? And one with such eyes -- eyes that still called to him, still made him clench his hand over the ghost of warmth.

Thorin stood for a long time, staring into the darkness and thinking. He did not sleep anymore that night.

~

The next day, while Thorin was going over a list of supplies with Balin, he received word that the team of Dwarves from the Shire had returned.

"Good," Thorin said, lowering the list and giving the Dwarf a nod. "Have Bofur come to me when he has rested."

The soldier shifted and did not meet his eyes. "Your pardon, King Thorin, but Bofur did not return with us. He sent a letter in his stead," the Dwarf said, setting three scrolls onto the table, and a slow frown appeared on Thorin's face.

"He did not return? Where is he?" asked Thorin, picking up the scrolls and looking over them. One scroll was wrapped in a green cloth of a simple make, and he recognized it as the same cloth that the Thain had used on a letter years ago, when Thorin had first begun to exchange letters with the leader of the Shire. The other two were more ambiguous, but after a moment he noticed two small cirth on the cloth of the second, which he read as _Úr_. He studied the last scroll, wondering who might have written it, then looked at the soldier.

"He said he would stay with the Hobbits, and that he would explain everything in the letter, Your Majesty," the Dwarf said, and Thorin's frown deepened a little, but he accepted the explanation for now and dismissed the soldier to rest.

Then he sat down and looked over the scrolls, and Balin eyed him over the table. "Might as well read them now, Thorin," his friend said, and Thorin nodded slowly. Then he opened Bofur's letter and began to read.

Several minutes later, he lowered the letter and gave a great sigh. "Bofur decided that, to follow my orders of supporting the Hobbits, he would stay with them for the time being. Ostensibly, to protect the Hobbits, but I suspect he simply likes being with them."

"Wise lad," Balin said, and Thorin snorted.

"Clever, more like. He weaseled his way well out of my orders. But I think... I do not mind, not if he is looking after Bilbo Baggins," Thorin said, his voice dropping a bit, and Balin raised an eyebrow at him. "He did well on reporting about the habits and behaviors of the Hobbits. Their health is a worry, as well as the psychological effects of their trauma... but Bofur believes they are strong, and will survive. He also wrote down his observations of Master Baggins... and of his decision," Thorin said, glancing back down at the letter.

"He says that he will escort Bilbo Baggins here, and then to the Anduin Vale to meet with Beorn," he said after a moment.

"Does that mean they have reached a decision, then? May I?" Balin asked, and Thorin passed the letter over to him, picking up the third scroll and turning it over in his hands, his fingers stroking the white cloth that tied the scroll together.

While Balin read, Thorin sat back and thought about what Bofur had written.

> _I'll tell you now about Bilbo Baggins. I've befriended him while helping the hobbits, and Bilbo is a good lad. He is kind and thoughtful, and he cares about his family and friends._
> 
> _Bilbo spends most of his time with children, telling them stories or playing with them, or in the Thain's library. He loves to read, but most of his books burned down. I've told him about Erebor's library, but I'm not sure he believes me, majesty. We'll have to show him when he comes to Erebor, won't we? If he's not in those two places, he's with his cousins. He's the oldest of them, and they all look up to him, since most of them have lost their fathers, and he's the closest father figure they have. A lot like a certain king we both know, if I should say so._
> 
> _Bilbo carries darkness, though. He sometimes doesn't eat enough, or he lets other hobbits' opinions get to him, or he doesn't sleep right. I don't think any of the hobbits are healthy, not like we always knew hobbits to be, but I do think Bilbo is worse off than most of them. He spends more time worrying about other people than himself. He has nightmares about the Defiler, and his past haunts him._
> 
> _Mind you, he hasn't told me this in person. I've watched him since I met him, and I can see the dark circles under his eyes, the way he rubs his stomach when he thinks no one notices. I've seen the way he stares off into the distance, the way his thoughts darken his gaze. I worry a lot for him, so I want to take care of him. He's become something like a brother to me, for all that he is a hobbit, and I can't leave him alone._
> 
> _I've told him a great deal about Erebor. I can tell he wants to visit, but he's afraid of meeting you. I think he's afraid of disappointing you, because he thinks he's still a poor imitation of his old self. I think he's healed a great deal, but I've been watching him all these months, so I've seen all the changes. I hope that when you meet him again, that you see what I've seen. I hope you see the strength he carries and the good in his heart._
> 
> _One last note on Bilbo Baggins, before I continue with my report. Along with my letter, you should have received two more letters. One is from the Shire Thain, and the other is from Bilbo himself. Seems he had a few things he wanted to say to you._

"Balin," Thorin said quietly. Balin looked up at him in question, and Thorin gave him a small smile. "When Bofur brings Bilbo Baggins here, take care with him. He lived in these halls when they were filled with Orcs, so he may be hesitant to stay. Give him my rooms for the time that he is here."

Balin looked startled, but he raised a curious eyebrow at Thorin, glancing down at Bofur's letter again. "Thorin, those rooms are..."

Thorin knew what he meant, that those rooms were meant for a Dwarf lord, but he did not care. "Give them to him. He rested easily enough in my tent after the battle. Mayhap he will rest easy again, knowing that I slept there safely. Make sure his family and Bofur sleep nearby, as well. He is _khuzdibâh_ , and I'll not have him go wanting while he is in these halls. Not here, not where he suffered so much," Thorin said, more quietly, and Balin watched him solemnly.

"Your interest in this Hobbit is rather curious, Thorin, but I'll do ask you ask," Balin said, a small smile appearing on his face, and Thorin's lips twitched.

"I owe him a great debt. Likely he will feel the need to repay this as well, but whatever he does for me, I will always want to help him. It is the least I can do," Thorin said. Balin hummed in reply, and Thorin felt a bit humbled at being so honest, so he set Bilbo's scroll aside and pulled open the scroll from the Thain.

After reading for a bit, Thorin glanced up at Balin. "Fortinbras sends his thanks for everything we have done for them. They have also reached a decision, that they will definitely leave the Shire and go to the Anduin Valley," he said, and Balin started.

"Truly? All of them? But what of the travel -- will it not be dangerous for them?"

Thorin glanced down at the letter. "Gandalf has requested the Ranger Men of the North to guide them here and protect them. He and I spoke of this when he came here not a month ago. The Rangers will guide them here, and then a group of my soldiers will escort them to the Vale. I told you of this, did I not?"

Balin nodded, eyeing the letter in Thorin's hands thoughtfully. "Aye, but I did not know about the Rangers. It will be treacherous for them, I should think, with whatever remains of the Orcs still running about. We will have to prepare for their arrival. When did he say he would come? The Thain," Balin asked, and Thorin frowned as he looked through the letter.

"They hope to leave by the end of spring. They still have to prepare for travel and pack, as well as prepare supplies... so expect them by midsummer, Fortinbras says," Thorin replied, handing the second letter over to Balin, who took it and read, while Thorin took back Bofur's letter and glanced through it again.

He was pleased, though, that the Thain had taken his suggestion to heart. He would need to speak with Beorn about this on his way home. It was good that he had sent the rest of the army ahead, save those who had chosen to stay in Khazad-dûm, and those who would escort the Hobbits to the Valley. Beorn disliked most Dwarves on the best of days, and an army of them would have made talking to him about the Hobbits rather difficult. Thorin had planned to visit him already, to tell him of the possibility of the Hobbits' arrival, but now he would have surer news.

Thorin did not look forward to the upcoming Eastern Meeting. He hoped that Frerin and Dís, who had both gone in his stead, had managed to keep the peace while he was gone. Unlikely, considering Thranduil, not to mention the leaders of Dale and Laketown... but then, Dís was terrifying in all ways when it came to protecting the kingdom, and Frerin could handle any situation, no matter the severity.

He looked forward to seeing them again, at least. No doubt they would press him for every detail on his war march, but he would be glad to be home with them. He had already sent a messenger to them, and tomorrow, he would leave Khazad-dûm for good. He glanced at Bilbo's letter and felt a pang of regret, and for a moment he considered staying longer and meeting Bilbo when he came... but no.

He could not. He had promised, and he would keep his promise.

He would need to give Bofur another commendation upon his return. Bofur had given him a large amount of information on the Hobbits, the Shire, the Thain's plans, and Bilbo Baggins himself -- information that Thorin doubted that any Hobbit would ever share with them. He could use this information to help the Hobbits, to procure future agreements and guarantee their safety and health. He appreciated that Bofur would guard Bilbo Baggins from danger on his journey, as well.

When Balin looked up from the Thain's letter, muttering to himself about preparations and supplies, he glanced at the third letter and raised an eyebrow. "What about the one from Mister Baggins?" he asked.

Thorin picked up the scroll, turned it over in his hands, then tucked it into his pocket, giving Balin a look. "I will read it later," he said, and Balin watched him for a long moment.

"As you wish, Thorin. Shall we continue, then?" Balin said, and Thorin eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but Balin did nothing more than smile, so Thorin assented. For a time, he used his preparations for departure to forget the scroll in his pocket, knowing that if he thought about it too much, he would want to read it immediately.

~

Later that evening, after Thorin had laid out his clothes for traveling the next day, and had seen to packing up everything that he would not need in the morning, he sat at his desk and slowly opened the scroll in his pocket, laying it across the desk. He did not read it quite yet, studying the length of the letter and stroking a finger across the signature.

_Bilbo Baggins._

He remembered the last time he had seen Bilbo, a shell of a Hobbit with dark, sad eyes and trembling words, who forced himself to act brave despite his absolute fear from the Defiler. The way those thin hands had grasped him, the way Bilbo's voice had shaken as he begged Thorin to give him time. Sometimes he wished he could go back to that moment and reassure Bilbo more, say something different to him, convince him of his worth, say _something else_ \-- but that moment was long over.

If Bilbo was writing to him now, then perhaps Bilbo, too, had not said everything he had wanted to say then.

Thorin glanced at the signature once more, then looked to the beginning of the letter and began to read.

> _To Thorin Oakenshield,_
> 
> _I have tried to start this letter several times, but each time I try to write, 'How are you? I am doing well. I hope you are doing well too,' or some meaningless sentences similar enough, I crumple up the page and have to start again. I do hope you are doing well, Thorin ~~Oakenshield~~. You asked me to call you that, so I will, since your name is rather long for a dwarf._
> 
> _Bofur suggested that I write to you, but I am unsure what to say. Surely he and my cousin Fortinbras have told you everything? But I will tell you what I can, anyway, just in case. I also have some questions that perhaps you can clarify, as well. I did not speak very well at our last meeting, but I am a better writer than speaker, so perhaps these words will reach you more easily._
> 
> _When I left you, it was by the calendar of Men late September, approaching the end of harvest. Winter set in quickly after Bofur and I arrived, and I moved into the family home of my mother, a Took by blood. My cousin, Fortinbras, is Thain, and he gave me my mother's old room. I am very happy to tell you that I have family that survived Shirefall. My cousins, Drogo and Otho, Bagginses like me, and many other cousins as well. Almost all of us lost our parents to Shirefall, though. I have only a few aunts and uncles left. But they are alive, and that is what is important. I have family still._
> 
> _The Shire is nothing like I knew it, though. I had seen Shirefall and feared the worst, but I always hoped that the Shire was just as it was the morning before everything changed. Beautiful, peaceful, green with life. But that was not true, Thorin. The Shire as I knew it is dead. Nothing green grows anymore. There are no flowers, no juicy tomatoes or beds of lettuce and herbs. The dirt is oily, and the sun almost never shines. There is always a haze of grey in the distance, and the breeze carries a sour taste. The roads where my parents and neighbors used to take leisurely afternoon walks are dry and rocky. The smials -- our houses in the ground, which were so bright and warm with the comforts of home -- are burnt and destroyed. This is no place to live._
> 
> _We, the hobbits, have decided to leave the Shire. This past winter was the last we will ever see of this place. I hope that on the other side of the Misty Mountains, the lands are as green as you promised in your letter to my cousin. I would like to see them, and I will soon. All of my kin will leave by summer, after they finish preparing and gathering everything, but I will leave very soon, before them._
> 
> _Bofur and Gandalf will guide us there. My cousin has sent me to speak to the person you wrote about, Beorn. You told my cousin that Beorn himself offered the Vale as a new home for us, and I will meet with him, to determine where we can live and what his rules are for living on his land. I am a very well-read hobbit, actually, and in my youth I studied the history of that side of the world very carefully. I was especially drawn to the battles in which your neighbor the Elvenking fought, and though I had considerably less histories on dwarfkind, I did read about your kingdom and family. Fortinbras thinks that with this knowledge, I will do well in managing any agreements between the hobbits and the various kingdoms of the east. I hope I do well in this._
> 
> _As a King of your people and a representative of your kingdom, I hope you might share any information that would be helpful to us. We hobbits are proud farmers, but we have few seeds left from previous years. What we bring with us may not do well in such a different place, so if you know of any books that tell of what grows well in that area of the world, please let me know, and I will buy them from you. Is Beorn a farmer?_
> 
> _After I meet with Beorn, I will find a place for my kin to settle. The hobbits should begin to arrive by summer. Bofur told me it will take almost two months to reach the Vale from the Shire. Once they start arriving, we will begin making homes for the winter. We will probably have to buy supplies from Dale, or any other towns nearby, or even from Erebor. I will have money to pay for what we need. Or, perhaps as you suggested, we could make an agreement, labor for supplies. We hobbits have many skills that might be useful to you dwarves._
> 
> _Bofur told me of the different market halls, but I would hardly know where to start! Do I need some sort of pass? Or perhaps this token you gave me will help? I suppose all of this should be discussed in person, not through a letter. Is there a certain person I should meet with in Erebor or Dale, to discuss supplies such as wood and metal? Hobbits live in holes in the ground, very comfortable homes if I should say so myself, and we are creatures of comfort. I believe it will take a long while to make a home out of the Vale, but we are determined._
> 
> _I worry about what will need to be done when we arrive. How do people begin new lives? We will have to make new smials, new furniture, new cushions, new clothes, new everything. I am bringing some things that were not destroyed, but it will not be enough. How can we do this? I am unsure, Thorin. At least in the Shire, we had homes, but in the Vale there is nothing. Most of the craft masters were lost in Shirefall. I worry about how this will work._
> 
> _Will we even like the Vale? Will Beorn even like us? Will the elves accept us? Will your subjects accept us? We are a simple folk and do not strive for anything greater than a warm hearth, a good meal, and a cheerful song. My people do not sing anymore, Thorin. Not happy songs. Will the Vale give us something to sing about again? Is the eastern world so much better than the Shire as it was? It was our home, and it is gone. How can we replace it?_
> 
> _How can I of all people hope to do this? I am only a hobbit. I never dreamed of anything so big as this. The world was just the Shire, with only books and rumors to tell of the adventures beyond our borders. Then there was Shirefall. And him._
> 
> _I am sorry for telling you of these worries. I meant this letter to be better than this. I meant to show you how much better I am now. But I'm not better, not really. I still dream about him and the orcs. I'm still thin and sad and angry. I am so angry, Thorin, at everything that happened, and I cannot express it. I write about it and dream about it but I never speak of it. I do not want to scare my cousins. I am afraid of that feeling. I do not want to be like him. He was angry too, all the time. Azog, I mean._
> 
> _Again, I am sorry. I should not have spoken about that, but this letter is already so long. I've talked all through this letter about myself. I meant to ask you questions about Erebor, and your kingdom, and your family. Bofur told me you have sister-sons, and that Erebor has a vast library, and that there is glowing moss on the walls, and that you can even make ale that glows in the dark from it. Was he lying, or is there truly such a thing? What are your sister-sons like? What is the rest of your family like?_
> 
> _Do you visit the library yourself? Is it truly so vast as Bofur says? He told me it was as big as the hall where the dwarves and the orcs fought, in the battle where everything happened. I happen to like books very much, so if it is so big, I would like to see it. I suspect most of the books are in Khuzdul, but I would like to see it anyway. I have practiced the letters that I remember, and Bofur has corrected what I had wrong. Perhaps I could learn more if that is acceptable. It is a beautiful language._
> 
> _Please tell Healer Óin that his salves and medicines worked wonders. I am much healthier than I was. But none of us are right anymore. We have not had a proper seven-meal-day in too long! I do miss dwarf food, for all that it made me sick, because there was lots of it. Where did you get your supplies for the army? Bofur told me you made trades with men. Perhaps the hobbits could do this too, until we have tended the land well enough to grow our own?_
> 
> _I hope you are doing well. I hope the dwarves have cleaned out the mess the orcs left. I hope those halls are nothing as I remember them._
> 
> _I have not forgotten our promise, Thorin. I am still not strong. But I am better than I was, and I hope that after we reach the Vale, after we build a new home there, that life will be a bit more normal. Perhaps after all that, you and I could meet again. What can I do for you that you have not already done for me? Please tell me, if you send a response to this letter. Please tell me what I can do for you. You have already done so much for me and my people. I want to repay you properly._
> 
> _What can a simple hobbit do for a king of dwarves? How can I ever hope to repay you with all that stands between us?_
> 
> _Respectfully yours,  
>  Bilbo Baggins_

When Thorin had read the letter to its end, he stared at the signature for several minutes, stunned at the length and verbosity. How had such a tiny Hobbit written so many words? 

In his mind, he pictured Bilbo sitting at a desk with dark eyes and sunken shoulders, sleepless with nightmares and thin from eating too little. He remembered Bofur's warnings about Bilbo's health, and he wished he could do something. He did not think it suited Bilbo, to be so wrought with worry, not after everything he had faced. And such worries -- he wished suddenly that he could go to Bilbo and speak to him directly, and for a moment he was torn between going home and staying here to wait for him.

Then he caught himself, and wondered at his own reaction. He could not stay and wait for Bilbo. What was he thinking? To abandon his kingdom for a Hobbit? No, he would keep his promise and let Bilbo come to him when he was ready. He had to return home, to lead his people and see his family again.

He could write a response to Bilbo, though. He pulled open a drawer and took out a stack of paper, setting it beside the letter. He took a deep breath, then read through the letter once again, looking past his initial response and studying Bilbo's words. That Bilbo wrote so well astonished him, but he felt pleased at the same time. Bilbo was not only courageous and strong, but intelligent as well? He remembered how much it had cost Bilbo to speak to him, that early morning so many months ago, and he wondered at what it might like to speak to Bilbo like this, but in person. He looked forward to it.

It pleased him that Bilbo continued to call him 'Thorin.' He still did not understand his own urge to have Bilbo address him familiarly instead of by his usual titles. It simply did not feel _right_ , to have that Hobbit call him "Your Majesty" or "Sire," placing that level of power between them and leaving them unequal. 

He paused as he read that Bilbo was Fortinbras' cousin. Family to the Thain? He had not considered Bilbo's heritage before, but now he wondered what the Thain had told Bilbo. Had Bilbo read his letter? He flushed suddenly, remembering that small addition he had made to the letter, for the Thain to look well upon Bilbo. Had Bilbo read that as well?

He felt gladdened to know that Bilbo had surviving family, but the description of the Shire saddened him the next moment. He had never been to the Shire, but he had heard of its peace and beauty, and he could not imagine losing his home like that. If the dragon had ransacked his home all those years ago, or if they had warred with the Elves or Men... but Orcs had never attacked his kingdom. He wished, not for the first time, that he could go back in time and stop Azog from invading the Shire.

Thorin twitched when he read of Bilbo's knowledge of the East. To know more of the Elves than of the Dwarves? He would have to send some books to Bilbo, once he returned to Erebor, to cure that lack of knowledge. Certainly the histories of his people would interest Bilbo much more than the dark, murky stories about Elves of all creatures. Some other books as well -- books on plants, as Bilbo had requested, and perhaps a book on their language. He would have to go to Erebor's library when he returned home. Perhaps even something from his own collection?

As Bilbo had requested such things himself, Thorin would personally see to sending the information the Hobbit needed, along with anything else he might want. Trade agreements and supplies could be dealt with once he spoke with Dís about the guilds and what they could do. Likely she would prefer to make a contract with the Hobbits themselves. Perhaps Beorn would have ideas, and Thorin could meet with Dale's leader as well.

He suddenly wondered if Bilbo and Dís should ever meet, and what they might think of each other. He shook his head at the thought.

Bilbo's worries rang true with him, truer than he could explain. He remembered when he had been crowned King, at such a young age, just after his father's death. Young and anxious, with so much responsibility, after such loss -- so much like the Hobbit he had met only months ago. His thoughts then must have mirrored Bilbo's now. He still felt anxiety, even with his age and experience, and it saddened him to read Bilbo's anguish of the same sort.

It unsettled him, at the same time, to read of Bilbo's anger. Of his refusal to name Azog but only once, and to see that familiar name written with harsh lines, gouging the paper with hate. Thorin knew, though, what Bilbo meant by 'him.' He could not imagine what Bilbo had gone through with Azog -- and it still left him furious, to think of Azog's ownership over Bilbo. He remembered when Azog had caught Bilbo in the middle of the battle, and still it made his chest burn. What could Bilbo do, though, when he had no one to talk to about such emotions?

Thorin did not think he was suited to understanding Bilbo's needs -- and yet he felt a kinship with this Hobbit, a deep sympathy for Bilbo's anxieties and emotions. Perhaps Bilbo had opened up to him because he had no one else to turn to -- and if that was the case, Thorin would not fail him.

He would answer Bilbo's worries, as well as his many questions. He would do his best to reassure Bilbo, and to offer him aid in what ways he could. Thorin could do that much, at least. 

_**What can a simple hobbit do for a king of dwarves?** _

_Anything,_ Thorin thought. _Anything that you can, as I will do for you. You have already repaid me, Bilbo Baggins, and I will repay you a thousand times more._

He inked his quill and set it to the paper, spelling out Bilbo's name with care in Westron letters, then again in cirth. Then he began to write, and the more he wrote, the less he thought of the time, of his journey tomorrow, of Erebor far away. For a time, all he thought about was a Hobbit far away, who needed him but would not say so -- and whom, he suspected, he might need as well.

~

_He was running. He could hear the drums behind him, the calls of **catch him, gut him, drag him back to the Defiler** behind him in the darkest of speech. He could hear the screeches and growls and grunts of Orcs that would love nothing more than to tear him to pieces. He heard the snarls of their Wargs -- could feel the hot breath on the back of his neck, and he screamed and slipped, fell to the ground, and when he turned on his back, his master stood over him, smiling with fury._

_But Azog's eyes were empty and his mouth poured red when it opened, and there was a giant hole in his chest where Bilbo had stabbed him -- Bilbo screamed and covered his face --_

Then he woke with a start, his heart racing wildly, a cry still caught in his throat. He looked around frantically, but there was no monster leaning over him, only the quiet of night and the whisper of the wind in the trees above. Instead of a cave of Orcs, he only saw the camp, his cousins sleeping peacefully beside him, and Bofur snoring across the fire. He glanced at Rory and saw that he looked vaguely uncomfortable, but he did not stir when Bilbo sat up. Shuddering faintly, he rubbed his face and carefully crawled out of his bedroll, then snuck across the camp to be closer to the fire.

For a few moments, Bilbo stood in front of the small fire, rubbing his arms and trying not to think about the horrific image he saw in his dream. They had been traveling across the continent for over three weeks. The Misty Mountains loomed in the distance, and Bofur said it would be about a week more before they reached the Western Gate of Khazad-dûm. 

The journey so far had been long, but Bilbo had settled into the rhythm of travel comfortably. Otho, Drogo, and Rory were all familiar and safe to him, and he had once traveled with Bofur before and slept well enough. At first, he had been worried about sleeping in a place with so many others, but all of his travel companions were his friends. He trusted every one of them. 

Bilbo had slept well and through the night during the first two weeks of their journey, pressed between his cousins while Bofur and Gandalf took turns watching over the camp. Then, it seemed that the closer they traveled to the mountains, the more nightmares Bilbo saw in his sleep. He knew that Rory was sleeping poorly as well, but so far Rory slept through the night -- unlike Bilbo.

Tonight they had camped atop a rocky hill that looked over the nearby Downs, that was hard to reach and, Bofur had assured them, safe from attack. It had not kept Bilbo safe from his bad dreams, though.

Bilbo tried to calm himself, reminding himself that it was a dream and that Azog was dead, but he could not relax. He glanced up and spotted Gandalf sitting against the large crag behind them, so he walked over to join him, curling up next to the grey folds of his cloak.

After a moment, Gandalf stirred, and blue eyes peered down at him in concern. "Bilbo?" Gandalf said quietly, and Bilbo glanced up at him sheepishly.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't, dear boy," Gandalf responded, sitting up and looking at Bilbo more closely. He hemmed under his breath. "Bad dreams?"

Bilbo nodded, and for a time neither said anything. Bilbo slowly stopped shivering, and Gandalf pulled out his pipe and began to smoke. Bilbo did not feel the urge to smoke himself, but he enjoyed the scent of Gandalf's Old Toby, feeling more relaxed as they watched the fire together.

Then Bilbo asked quietly, "Is there some magic to stop dreams?"

Gandalf was silent for a long moment, as he puffed on his pipe and stared into the darkness. "There is no such magic, my boy, and you would not want to stop your dreams anyway. Your mind uses dreams to sort itself, and some dreams are very important," he said, glancing down at Bilbo, who frowned to himself. Gandalf watched him, his gaze dark with sadness and unnamed emotions.

"I... am afraid to sleep sometimes, Gandalf. These dreams... these visions, they are painful and terrifying. I can't... handle them. Is there nothing I can do?" he asked, looking up at Gandalf with a solemn gaze.

Gandalf watched him for a moment, then sighed very deeply, reaching out to brush Bilbo's curls back. "There are old techniques for strengthening the mind, but I am not someone to teach them. For now, there is only time, and to fill your days with happiness, instead of grief. Time will make everything less terrible, Bilbo," Gandalf said quietly, but Bilbo shook his head, turning to look at the fire.

"There are some things time cannot mend, Gandalf," Bilbo said softly, and his expression darkened a bit. 

"And there are many things it _can_ mend, my dear boy," Gandalf said, and Bilbo looked back at him in question. Gandalf smiled at him. "I promise you will heal someday. I cannot say you will not always have terrible dreams, but they will be replaced with better ones. Tell me, have you had any good dreams lately?"

Bilbo watched him, a bit puzzled, but he nodded easily enough. "Sometimes I dream of the Shire as it was... and, well, this will sound silly and you _cannot_ tell Bofur," he said, glancing over the fire to Bofur's figure, relaxing a bit to see him snoring, "but sometimes... I dream of Erebor, of what I imagine it to be like. Those are nice dreams," he finished, a small smile softening his mien, and Gandalf's smile widened with it.

"I think you will like Erebor when you visit it. Thorin will be sure to give you a grand tour of the whole city, and I should say that the markets are a delight to explore," Gandalf said, and Bilbo twitched at the mention of meeting Thorin again, but he looked forward to it.

"Do you think --" Bilbo started, but then he froze, when he heard a familiar high-pitched scream far in the distance. He whirled around and stared into the darkness, paralyzed with fright, barely noticing as across the camp, Rory woke with a start and looked in the same direction. 

_Orcs._ Calling for a hunt -- who was the prey?

He only tore his gaze away when Gandalf reached up to touch his shoulder, gently guiding him back down.

"Bilbo," he heard, and he looked up to see Bofur standing in front of him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "It's okay, lad, we're in a safe place, alright?" Bofur said, and Bilbo stared at him without responding. Behind Bofur, Drogo and Otho were sitting up, talking quietly to Rory, who gave Bilbo a wide-eyed look before hiding his face in his hands.

Bofur knelt down in front of Bilbo and took his shoulders in hand, forcing Bilbo to meet his gaze. "Bilbo, it's _alright_. I promise you, we're safe here. They can't know where we are, and even if they did, I'll protect you, alright? You and your cousins are safe with me an' Gandalf," he said, glancing at Gandalf, who nodded when Bilbo followed his gaze.

Bilbo took a deep breath, then gave a tiny nod and pushed Bofur away. He stood and darted over to Rory, kneeling down beside him and touching his shoulder, and Rory reached up to hug him tightly.

"We're okay, right?" Rory whispered into his ear, and Bilbo nodded.

"We're okay," he whispered back, and after glancing at Bofur and Gandalf again, he let go of Rory and curled up beside him, watching Otho and Drogo lay down on his other side. Bofur went to stand at the edge of the camp, eyeing the surrounding land grimly, while Gandalf watched over Bilbo and his cousins silently.

Nothing attacked them during the night, but no one in the camp rested easily. Early the next morning, before the sun had risen above the horizon, they packed up their camp and started east again, eating apples and jerky. They rode for about an hour, until the sun had risen to warm their faces, and then they stopped at a creek to water the ponies and refill their waterskins.

As he cupped his hands to take a drink, Bilbo heard the high-pitched scream again -- only now it was not distant, and he could understand what followed.

" _Halflings! Kill them all!_ " Bilbo heard, and suddenly he could not breathe.

"They're coming," he whispered, and Bofur jumped up, pulling out his axe and looking around them, while Gandalf pulled out his sword. The ponies flinched and bumped against each other, sensing the threat so close to them. Bilbo stumbled to his feet and pulled out his small sword as well, a small sob catching in his throat when he saw the faint blue glow.

"Bilbo?" asked Drogo, grabbing onto Bilbo's arm.

Bilbo looked over at him with wide eyes. "Orcs are coming," he whispered.

Then Bofur was pushing at them, shoving them at the cart, and Bilbo began to move, grabbing onto Drogo and hoping that Rory had grabbed Otho. He heard the hunting call again and shuddered, remembering his dream and dreading turning around, even when he heard the snarl of a Warg. 

"Onto the cart! GO!" Gandalf yelled, and all of the Hobbits scrambled onto the cart, while Bofur took the reins and snapped them. The ponies screamed and began to run, as Orcs swarmed out of the forest behind them.

" _Get the Halflings!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and support, as always!! <3 You guys are amazing! Thank you, also, to my lovely betas, theaspetta and eaivalefay!


	23. Finding oneself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter contains violence!
> 
>  **Word meanings** :  
>  _Akashuga sha!_ \-- Damn Hobbit!  
>  _Nargraurlat nur-izub._ \-- You will not touch my family.

_"Get the Halflings!"_

The bone-chilling cry rang in Bilbo's ears, and he held on tightly to Drogo. He looked toward Bofur and saw Rory and Otho huddled next to him, and when he looked back, he saw the Orcs approaching them. Drogo was shaking beside him, and Bilbo pulled him away from the edge when the cart rattled.

"Hold on!" he shouted, and Drogo clung to his waistcoat. The Orcs were getting closer, and Bilbo pressed himself and Drogo back against the bag behind them, his arm in front of his cousin.

As Bofur snapped the reins and Gandalf rode ahead of them, it became clear that the cart was not built for speed. It rattled and shook every time it hit a bump, and they could not turn well, something that startled Bilbo when they went around a rock and he felt them slow down greatly.

"Bofur!" he cried, and he heard the reins snap again.

"Hold on, Bilbo!" Bofur shouted. Bilbo bit down a whimper when he looked back and saw that the Orcs were closer -- close enough that he could hear them growling to each other in their dark speech.

_"Flank them and drag the Halflings off! Scouts, shoot the Wizard!"_

"Gandalf!" Bilbo yelled, hoping that Gandalf could hear him, "There are more in the woods! They have bows and arrows!"

He heard Gandalf give a great shout, and in alarm he sat up on his knees and looked around, seeing Gandalf charge off into the woods ahead of them. Bofur cursed as the ponies whinnied in fear, and Bilbo had to hold on tightly when the cart bounced again.

"We cannae go this fast! The cart won't take it," Bofur yelled back at Bilbo, who grit his teeth and frantically thought of what to do.

There had to be half a dozen Orcs on Wargs chasing them, and Bilbo had no idea how more were hidden in the woods. He knew all too well how fast Wargs were and how relentless Orc hunts could be. He had no idea how they could escape this safely.

If they got out of the woods, they might find a river to cross, to slow the Orcs down. Or they might get to an outpost -- didn't Bofur say there was one not far ahead? "Just a bit longer --" Bilbo started saying, but then he felt Drogo's grip on his coat slip.

"BILBO!" Drogo screamed, and Bilbo whirled around to see an Orc holding onto Drogo's arm, claws slicing through his sleeve too easily.

"Get _away_ from him!" Bilbo hollered, his heart leaping into his throat, and he did not hesitate when he struck at the Orc's hand with his sword. The Orc snarled and let go of Drogo, and Bilbo yanked his cousin back from the edge of the cart, slicing through the air as the Orc fell back.

 _"Akashuga sha!"_ the Orc cursed, and Bilbo tore his eyes away briefly to look at Drogo's arm.

Only a little blood, making Bilbo give a deep sigh, but his relief was short-lived as he looked back and heard the whistles of a dozen arrows, seconds before he heard a sickening thud. He looked down at Drogo and saw the arrow sticking out of Drogo's shoulder, saw the frightened expression Drogo gave him before his face twisted in pain.

 _"Drogo!"_ he cried, and he heard Rory and Otho up front calling to them, asking what was wrong, but he only felt terror for his cousin, who was so young, and who was bleeding far too much.

He heard the snarl of a Warg and looked back, only to see another Orc riding up beside the first. He held up his sword, feeling his arm shaking but, but he was determined to protect his cousin.

"Stay back!" Bilbo yelled, and the Orc closest to them snarled.

 _"I'll skin you and eat you alive, nasty little Hobbit!"_ the Orc sneered, and a shiver ran up Bilbo's spine.

The Orc lunged forward and leapt from the Warg's back to the cart, and Drogo yelped when it landed inches from him. Once again Bilbo did not hesitate, despite the fear numbing his mind. He let out a yell, rushed at the Orc, and stabbed the glowing blue blade into its stomach. He stood over Drogo and pulled the sword out of the Orc, catching its shocked expression before he shoved it off the cart with his foot. He turned a livid glare on the other Orc that was staring at him in shock.

For a moment Bilbo was shocked at himself, at the strength in his thin limbs and the vicious hate he felt toward the Orc. But then he saw in the Orc's face a familiarity, reminding him of his seven years of hell, and his eyes narrowed.

 _"Nargraurlat nur-izub,"_ Bilbo hissed, the words hurting him even as he said them, but the disgusting feeling was worth the look the Orc gave him when it realized he could speak their language.

 _"Nûl-lûpûrz,"_ the Orc said dumbly, and Bilbo's eyes widened as he sucked in a gasp. They _knew him_?

Then the Orc shouted, _"It's Azog's whore! Get the pale-haired Hobbit! Kill the others!"_

And Bilbo felt utter terror as the Orcs behind them gave wordless cries that had his ears ringing, recognizing them instantly as hunting calls. More calls responded from the woods, but only a moment later, he heard a death-scream from the same direction as one of the calls.

"Gandalf," he whispered, and two of the Warg riders turned sharply and veered off into the forest. The cart was still moving alarmingly fast, so fast that the woods blurred in his sight, and looking back at Bofur, he could see green fields ahead in the distance. If they could just reach the fields, if they could fight off the last three Warg riders, he could find some herbs -- some sort of medicine, something to save Drogo, who was trembling behind him and letting out faint wheezes of pain.

But then a clawed hand grabbed Bilbo's arm, and he heard Drogo scream his name as the world suddenly tilted. The hand let go, and Bilbo hit the ground with a cry, the sword falling from his grip as he rolled. The world stopped turning around him, and Bilbo breathed in deeply against the sudden sharp pain in his chest. The rattling of the cart grew distant, but Bilbo could still hear his cousins calling for him and the sounds of fighting in the woods.

Then Bilbo heard a growl nearby, and he sat up quickly and saw the Orc on the Warg circling back to stalk him. One Warg rushed past them, but Bilbo saw the other slowing as it approached. The first Orc lunged at him, grabbing at his face, but Bilbo ducked away, only to feel something dig into his neck. He looked down in shock and saw the Orc pulling on his necklace, and he shrieked and grabbed his sword, cutting the Orc's arm and making him let go. The chain broke, and Bilbo hurriedly grabbed it as it fell, gripping the rings and key tightly and backing away, holding his sword in front of him as the Orc glared at him.

 _"I'll kill you,"_ the Orc promised, but Bilbo only glared and took off into the underbrush.

The two Orcs followed, but Hobbits were known to be fast on their feet and silent when they needed to be. Bilbo wove through the trees and bushes, ducking behind every large rock and using every small path he could find, hearing the larger Orcs stumble and curse behind him. He dove beneath a bush that was growing between two large rocks and pressed himself down against the ground, covering his mouth as he tried to catch his breath through his nose. Then he held very still.

_"Azog's whore went this way!"_

_"That filthy pain-bearer! He should die for betraying Azog!"_

_"We will take him to Bolg, let him rot in Dol Guldur and die in misery. Where has he gone?"_

_"Go down that path! I will look here!"_

The sounds of branches cracking and leaves rustling faded away, and Bilbo let out a slow breath. His heart was thudding in his chest, pumping blood loudly in his ears, and he tried to focus on the glow of his blade, waiting for it to flicker out. It did not, leaving him more and more fearful, as he waited for any sign that the Orcs were truly gone. Carefully, he rose to his knees and crept to the edge of the bushes, and he jumped when his sword scraped against the rock beside him.

 _"Did you hear something?"_ he heard from a distance, and Bilbo's face crumpled as he looked around wildly. Where else could he hide? He backed into the hole again and fumbled with everything in his hands, finally tucking his sword back into its sheath to hide the glow.

Bilbo looked down at the key and rings, mournfully touching the delicate chain that he had worn for six months now. Carefully, he tucked the chain and key into one of his smaller pockets, but then a noise outside caught his attention. Bilbo fretted for a moment, not wanting to lose the rings after holding onto them for so long.

Then he had a thought, and he could have smacked himself. They were _rings_ , and he could _wear them_. He might have strange Dwarvish dreams for a week, but at least the rings would be safe. So he slid the large gold ring with its blue stone onto his finger, then slid the simple gold ring on after it, closing his eyes tightly.

As soon as he closed his eyes, though, everything went still. The fighting sounds in the distance and the snapping of twigs nearby disappeared, replaced by the chilling sound of wind echoing through a great chasm -- but Bilbo was only in a tiny hole. His eyes popped open, and he looked around him in shock. What he saw terrified him so much that he fell out of his hiding place.

Everything around Bilbo was muted. The sky was terribly bright, but no longer blue, and the grasses and trees around him were no longer vivid green or deep brown. Everything was grayer, darker with only hints of their former colors, and Bilbo realized that the sounds were muted as well, when he noticed movement nearby and heard the faint noise of wood snapping.

He could only watch in horror as Orcs stalked into the clearing he was in, and one turned to look at him -- but then Bilbo stared, as the Orc looked past him as if it did not see him.

 _"Where could the whore have gone?"_ one Orc growled, but his snarling words had an eerie echo to them.

 _"Let's get back to the others,"_ the other Orc suggested, and the two ran off into the woods, leaving Bilbo frightened and shocked, his blood pounding in his ears.

He stayed still for quite some time, but the Orcs did not return. Slowly, Bilbo let himself relax, looking down at the rings, then looking around the strange world again.

 _It must be a magic ring,_ Bilbo thought in wonder, twisting the gold ring on his finger. To make him invisible, of all things! How lucky he was to find it, and even luckier to put it on his finger now of all times!

For a moment Bilbo was overcome with the strangest sensation, as if he were not himself. He did not feel like Bilbo, nor like a Baggins, or even like a Took. He felt like the _nûl-lûpûrz_ again, like he was becoming just as terrible as those orcs. Had he really just murdered an Orc to protect his cousin? Had he really just said something in the language he learned from his master? Surely it was somebody else, and not him, who had said and done those things?

But it was to protect Drogo, and Otho and Rory, and Bofur and Gandalf, none of whom understood the Orcs, none of whom knew how they hunted better than Bilbo.

Drogo. His friends, his family. Were they alright?

He looked around himself in anxiety. Where was he? He saw the road in the distance through the trees, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Were the others okay? Had they escaped the Orcs? Surely Gandalf and Bofur, with their skill and weapons, had fought them off? Bilbo knew he had to find his family and friends, so he crept to the edge of the path he was on and climbed halfway up a tree.

There were no Orcs nearby, but Bilbo decided to keep the ring on. If he was truly invisible, it would only do him good with Orcs about. He jumped down from the tree and pulled out his sword, admiring it briefly as it glowed brightly blue in the gray world. Then he ran off toward the road, careful to be quiet even though he could not see any Orcs. He did not know if this ring muted him as well as rendered him invisible, but he would take no chances.

Bilbo came to the road and saw none of the Orcs or Wargs, save the one lying dead where it had fallen from the cart after he had stabbed it. Grimly, Bilbo went to the corpse and looked over it with a grimace, then gave a sigh of relief when he saw a pouch on its side. He tore the pouch off the Orc's belt, then started running down the road, toward the field that he had seen in the distance.

When Bilbo came upon the field, he saw the cart at a standstill out in the grass. Rory and Otho were climbing around the back of the cart to Drogo, while Bofur was on the ground, fighting a Warg and rider. Bilbo breathed in sharply and started running toward them, desperate to protect his family despite his terror, but then Bofur landed a killing blow on the Warg, and in his next move slammed his mattock into the Orc's neck.

Bilbo turned and saw another Orc running from the woods, the same Orc that had pulled him off the cart, and then he saw Gandalf giving chase. He watched as Gandalf cut the Orc down, and he waited, hiding against a tree, but no other Orcs or Wargs followed Gandalf from the woods.

The fight was over. Elation spread through him, followed by sharp relief, and Bilbo sunk to his knees when he felt them give out. He reached up to rub at his eyes when he felt them water, not wanting to cry in front of his friends and family. They had survived -- they were okay.

"Bofur," he heard Gandalf call, and Bofur looked over at the Wizard in relief, then grief.

"Gandalf, Bilbo fell back there. We have to find him!" Bofur shouted, already starting toward where Bilbo was hiding. Gandalf started after him, but then he caught sight of the Hobbits.

"Rorimac Brandybuck, what has happened to Drogo?" Gandalf said, and Bilbo's breath hitched.

_Drogo._

He stood up and pulled the gold ring from his finger, blinking in shock when the world returned to normal. Then he tucked the two rings into his pocket, carefully so they did not fall, and slid his sword into its sheath. Then he stepped out from his hiding place, beginning to run toward the cart.

"Bofur!" Bilbo called, and Bofur looked over in shock and joy.

"Bilbo!" Bofur cried, and when Bilbo met him, Bofur caught him up in a great hug, making Bilbo stiffen. Then he relaxed and hugged Bofur back, before pulling away.

"Where is Drogo?" he asked urgently, and Bofur's expression turned grim.

"It doesn't look good," Bofur said, and he led Bilbo back to the cart, where Gandalf and the others were. Gandalf had pulled Drogo from the cart and set him on the ground, and Bilbo saw that Drogo's right side was soaked with blood. Gandalf was murmuring to him, and he saw Drogo grit his teeth as Gandalf grasped the arrow. Then Gandalf pulled the arrow out, and Drogo let out a terrible noise that had Bilbo rushing forward.

"Poisoned," Gandalf muttered as he threw the arrow away.

"Drogo," Bilbo said, falling to his knees beside his cousin, and Rory and Otho looked on worriedly, pale with shock. 

"Bilbo," Drogo gasped, looking up at Bilbo with wide eyes. "You're okay?"

"I'm fine," Bilbo said, looking at Drogo's shoulder and trying not to cry. Drogo reached up to grab him, but the movement obviously hurt him, as he let out a pained cry and fell back against the ground.

Gandalf knelt beside them and pressed a cloth to Drogo's wound. "We must get away from here," he said, and Bofur shifted behind them.

"What about Drogo?" Bofur said, and Bilbo looked up at Gandalf with wide eyes. Gandalf glanced at him but shook his head.

"We can ill afford to take care of him here, out in the open. We can patch him up for now, but we must hurry! Those Orcs may come back," he said, and Bofur muttered in agreement.

Bilbo shifted anxiously, glancing back at Drogo and carefully brushing his dark curls away, then clenching his fist. Then he remembered the pouch in his hand, and he opened it and let out a noise of relief when he found a bottle inside. He tugged out the cork and smelled it, grimacing, then held it out to Gandalf. "Put this on Drogo's shoulder," he said.

Gandalf stared at him, then looked at the bottle in suspicion. "What is that, Bilbo?" he asked, and Bilbo glared at him.

"It's from the Orcs," he said, and he noticed Rory startle at the words. Then Bilbo had to jerk his hand back when Gandalf reached out as if to knock the bottle away. "Don't! Orc medicine _works_ , I don't know how, but just trust me. It will help keep the wound from getting infected," he said hurriedly, and Gandalf glared at the bottle for a long moment.

"How do you know this?" Gandalf asked, and Bilbo gave him a flat stare.

"How do you _think_?" he said darkly, and Gandalf leaned back in astonishment. Then a wary look came over his face, and he eyed the bottle again, but when he did not take it, Bilbo made a noise of frustration.

"Get out of the way then," he said shortly, and Gandalf moved away from Drogo after a moment. Bilbo carefully peeled the cloth from Drogo's shoulder, inhaling at the grotesque wound. Drogo flinched and turned his face away, and Bilbo murmured an apology. Then he looked back at Rory, who was watching the bottle in Bilbo's hand warily.

"Get me some bandages," Bilbo ordered, his voice shaking, and Rory obediently went to find the bandages they had purchased, bringing them to Bilbo. Rory helped him by holding Drogo up while Bilbo poured the Orc tincture over the wound and wrapped Drogo's shoulder, hoping to stave the bleeding. Bofur came around to help them get Drogo back onto the cart, and all the while Gandalf watched, his gaze dark with questions as he looked between Bilbo, Drogo, and the bottle of medicine.

Bilbo only frowned at him and tucked the medicine into his bag, tossing the dirty pouch away. Then he climbed onto the cart beside Drogo. Otho sat down on the other side of their cousin, and Rory took the spot beside Bofur, who watched them all worriedly.

"Ready?" Bofur asked, and Bilbo looked over Drogo once more. Drogo's eyes were closed in pain, and he was breathing shallowly, but Bilbo thought he was being very brave, so brave, for not crying or whimpering every time he was jostled. Bilbo looked over at Gandalf, who had climbed back onto his horse, and he sighed when he saw Gandalf watching him appraisingly.

"We're ready," he said to Bofur, not looking away from Gandalf, and he reached down to hold Drogo's hand as the cart began to move. Finally Gandalf looked away and began to ride ahead of them, and though Bilbo's sword no longer glowed, the ponies were still spooked and nickered nervously. For a time, nothing happened as they hurried across the Downs. The clouds began to gather, brushing up from the south with increasing winds, and rain fell on the company suddenly. Still they did not stop, and Bilbo covered Drogo with his father's old green waistcoat.

Later it began to storm, and between Drogo's wound and the ponies' exhaustion, Bilbo was loath to travel any further, so Gandalf gave in and let them find shelter. They located an abandoned outpost that suited their needs, with a bed for Drogo and a hearth to build a fire. There were no more signs of Orcs, no more calls in the distance, so they bundled Drogo up and carried him into the old building, and Bilbo boiled some water so that he could clean the wound. Somehow, between the bits of medicine Gandalf knew and the Orc tincture, they managed to stop Drogo's bleeding and settle him to rest.

Afterwards, Bilbo sat close to Drogo, who slept fitfully, his dark curls damp against his skin. Bilbo watched him worriedly and touched his cousin's forehead. Warm, too warm, but not burning. He picked up the waterskin and wet a cloth, then rung the moisture into Drogo's mouth. His cousin licked away the water but did not wake, and Bilbo sighed.

Then he called Rory over to watch Drogo, and Otho, who was sitting on Drogo's other side, watched Bilbo as he stood and walked over to Gandalf and Bofur.

The Wizard and Dwarf were whispering furiously to each other, and Bilbo caught "never allow it" before they noticed him and abruptly quieted. Bilbo watched suspiciously as Gandalf and Bofur exchanged glances.

"What were you talking about?" he asked, keeping his voice low, and Gandalf smiled at him.

"Nothing to be concerned about, my dear boy. How does Drogo fare?" the Wizard asked.

Bilbo frowned at him, but he let himself be distracted by the question, anxiety for his cousin's safety leaving him restless. "His shoulder is not festering, but he has a mild fever. I don't know what else to do for him. How far is it to the West-gate?" 

He watched Bofur and Gandalf exchange another glance, wondering at how Bofur glared and Gandalf looked determined. What had they spoken of?

"Six days," Bofur finally answered, and Bilbo's stomach dropped.

"But that's too long! Drogo can't make that, can he?" he asked worriedly, and Bofur frowned in thought.

Gandalf's voice was very hesitant when he answered. "If it becomes infected..."

"What else can we do, though? Are there no towns nearby?" asked Bilbo, frustrated with their responses.

"Not any towns of Men," Gandalf answered, and Bilbo saw Bofur shoot him a look.

"If we really push ourselves, we can make the Gate in five days, maybe even four," Bofur said, meeting Bilbo's gaze. "It'll be another two days to the city proper, though."

"Will Drogo be okay that long? We've stopped the bleeding, but he's in such pain," Bilbo said softly, glancing back at his cousins. Rory and Otho were sitting close together beside Drogo, talking in low voices.

"Not if his fever gets worse," Gandalf said grimly, and then his tone changed. "Though, Bilbo, there is another option --"

But before the Wizard could continue, Bofur cut him off. "I told you, we're not going there! There's no way those tree huggers would ever help us," Bofur growled, and Gandalf huffed.

"Really, Bofur! Lord Elrond is my friend! If we go to Rivendell --"

Bofur made an abortive motions as if to shush Gandalf, but it was too late. Bilbo's curiosity was immediately piqued, and he raised an eyebrow as he figured out what they had been arguing over.

"Rivendell?" he asked quietly, eyeing Bofur as the Dwarf let out a frustrated sigh.

"Indeed," Gandalf said. "It is only a day's ride from here, and we will be safe within the walls of the Elven city. Lord Elrond is a fine healer besides, and he can help Drogo, as well as watch over us until your cousin is healed."

_Rivendell._

Bilbo thought of the many books he had read in his youth about Elves, of the long walks through the woods where he would try to catch sight of one, so elusive to his young, inquisitive mind. How often had he longed to visit Rivendell? Rather, how often had he _not_ longed to see that shining Elven city?

Bofur leaned toward Bilbo with an earnest expression. "Bilbo, we _can't_. The Elves are no friends of Dwarves, and Thorin will have my head if he finds out I let you go to Rivendell!"

Bilbo frowned slowly. "Why should Thorin have any say in it?"

Bofur's expression froze. "Er --"

Bilbo's expression twitched into a scowl briefly. "Thorin may be your king, but he is not my keeper. I appreciate everything he has done for me, but what does it matter to him where I go?" He wanted to say more, but a glance at Gandalf showed a rather interested expression on the Wizard's face, and Bilbo chose not to say anything else, thinking he would ask Bofur later about that comment. "In any case, it doesn't matter. He's not here, and if someone in Rivendell can save my cousin, then we're going there. No arguing," he said sharply when Bofur opened his mouth again.

"But Bilbo," Bofur tried, but Bilbo shook his head and glared, at the end of his patience.

"No, Bofur! I have never had any problems with Elves, even the few I've met, and I trust Gandalf! If he says that Lord Elrond will help us, then I believe him. I know Dwarves and Elves do not see eye to eye, but I am not a Dwarf, so they will see nothing wrong with me other than I'm not tall enough! I will go to Lord Elrond myself and beg, if he can save Drogo! I can't believe you're more worried about how Thorin Oakenshield will react than saving my cousin's life!" Bilbo shouted, and Bofur shut his mouth, looking disturbed by Bilbo's words.

Bilbo realized he had raised his voice when Rory called over, "Bilbo? Is everything alright?"

He took a deep breath and looked away from Bofur, giving Rory a faint smile. "Yes, Rory, everything is fine. Right, Bofur?" he said pointedly, looking back at the Dwarf.

Bofur glared at him for a moment, which startled Bilbo who had never seen such an expression on his friend's face, but then Bofur sighed and looked away. "Yeah, everything's fine, lad. Get some rest, we'll be leaving soon," the Dwarf called out to the others, before he stood and left the building somewhat quickly, before Bilbo or Gandalf could stop him.

Bilbo had never, ever fought with Bofur before. They had always been friendly and open to each other, and it disturbed Bilbo how easily he had shouted at Bofur, just like how fast he had lost his temper at Rory the night his cousin had defended him at dinner. He did not know how to deal with the anger that simmered in the depth of his heart, and he could only push it away and hide it. Bilbo took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm himself.

Rory and Otho went back to talking, and Bilbo looked down at his hands. "I'll need to apologize to him later," he said sullenly, and Gandalf gave a soft huff under his breath.

"Let him be for now, Bilbo. In any case, I have a few questions to ask you, if you wouldn't mind," Gandalf said lightly, and immediately Bilbo was on his guard. He still felt raw from fighting with Bofur, and he did not look forward to anything Gandalf might ask about.

"What sort of questions?" he asked quietly, eyeing Gandalf with trepidation, but hiding it beneath a pleasant tone.

Gandalf saw through his polite mien immediately and frowned into his beard. "My dear boy, I have no intentions of interrogating you. I simply wish to ask about your knowledge of that Orc medicine and other such things. If it makes you uncomfortable, then I will not. However, you vowed your trust in me but a few minutes ago. I hope that those words were not simply something to shout at Bofur."

Bilbo lowered his gaze, a bit ashamed for his reaction, then gave a sigh. "I do trust you, Gandalf, and even though we have already spoken so much about everything... I still do not like talking about that time. Everything that I learned in that place is so difficult to share. But I will try to answer your questions."

"Thank you." Gandalf leaned forward, glancing past Bilbo at the three young Hobbits on the other side of the room, his voice lowering a bit. "What do you know about the Orc medicine?"

Bilbo twitched, wishing that Gandalf had not asked that question first. He pulled the bottle from his pocket and turned it over, remembering countless times when Azog would toss a bottle of the tincture onto his pillow. He could almost hear Azog growl _drink it_ into his ear. Shivering, Bilbo rubbed his arm, his shoulders hunching a bit as he took a deep breath. As he began to speak, he kept his voice quiet, not wanting to alert Rory to their conversation.

"Wounds made by Orcs almost always get infected, and at first, the Orcs didn't care if we were hurt a lot. A large number of us died in the beginning, because they got hurt too badly and lost too much blood... and Azog -- he didn't like that. So the Orcs began using their medicine on us, and it worked, but it left bad scars.

"You can drink it, and it will keep you from going thirsty, and it will clean out your stomach if you eat something rotten. You can put it on wounds, and it will stop any festering or infection. It didn't do much for the grey cough, which you got from all the dust and dirt in the air, or how weak we got... but it kept us alive, which is what he wanted."

He hesitated, then continued, "Azog made me use it a lot, so I know how it works. I do not know how it is made... but a few other Hobbits did. They had to help make it, because they were older and not much use for anything else. All of us, though, we had to use it --"

Bilbo stopped speaking abruptly when he noticed that Bofur had come back and was standing off to the side, staring at him with an odd look on his face. Bilbo met his gaze with a flinch, but Bofur's dark eyes were impossibly kind, as Bilbo had always known them. Bofur came over and laid his hand on Bilbo's shoulder, and Bilbo sighed deeply, reaching up after a moment to grip Bofur's hand.

"I suppose you'll want to know about the Orc speech as well, and everything else," Bilbo started, but Gandalf shook his head.

"Not if you do not wish to tell me, Bilbo," he said quietly.

Bilbo glanced back at Drogo's prone body, his mien slowly darkening. "I know you want to know, though. Gandalf... I _lived_ with Orcs for seven years. Anything they say, I can understand. I've always been good with languages, and I picked it up quickly. I had to. Surviving depended on knowing what they said about us, what they ordered us to do.

"I know about how they lived. I could write several books on Orc life and culture. But I do not want to. I want to forget everything I ever learned while I was there. I don't want Rory remembering it, either, or Drogo and Otho of all people learning those things from us. It's not right, and it never will be," Bilbo said, lowly but fiercely, turning back to look at Gandalf, and Bofur's fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder.

Gandalf was staring at him with wide eyes. The Wizard looked very troubled, and Bilbo wished to know his thoughts. After a moment, though, Gandalf sighed very deeply and stood from his spot, reaching out to clasp Bilbo's other shoulder.

"I am so sorry, my boy. I would never wish such terrible knowledge on anyone. I cannot help you forget it... but at least, some of it has come to good use, has it not?" Gandalf said quietly, and Bilbo looked back at his cousins, his heart aching for a moment.

Then he shook his head and pulled away from both of his friends, averting his gaze. "I suppose. How are the horses doing?"

Bofur eyed him, likely not buying into the abrupt change in subject, but he answered readily enough. "They're mostly calm now. Still a bit spooked from earlier, but they've been watered and fed. We should start moving soon," he said, glancing over at Gandalf, who nodded.

"If we can make it to the Ford of Bruinen by nightfall, we will be safe from attack. Orcs will not go past the river," the Wizard said, and Bofur scowled a bit, but Bilbo shot him a warning look.

"Bofur, help me with Drogo, will you?" he asked, and Bofur subsided with a nod. Then they walked over to the boys, to tell them about their decision to go to Rivendell.

Gandalf watched them go with a contemplative look on his face.

~

When the rain abated, the company set to traveling again, and hours passed. Gandalf kept a sharp eye out as he rode ahead, while Bilbo sat with Drogo, who moaned in pain every so often as he slept. Several times Bilbo would check his forehead, and each time Drogo felt warmer. He fretted and worried, anxiety rolling in his stomach, as they drew ever closer to the Loudwater River.

It got darker, but as ever they pressed on, pushing the ponies in their desperate attempt to reach safety. Bilbo silently promised that he would spoil them and treat them to several apples once they reached Rivendell, to make up for the hard work they had done today. Gandalf remained on guard, and Bofur was mostly silent, only responding to Bilbo in curt tones, looking tense as he drove.

Watching him, Bilbo suddenly wondered if Bofur had been wounded. His cousins had thankfully escaped injury, and both Gandalf and Bofur seemed fine, but were they really? Bilbo resolved to ask him.

"Bofur, did you get hurt fighting those Orcs?" he asked quietly, and Bofur looked back at him in surprise.

"No, Bilbo, didn't get a scratch. Why?" Bofur responded, raising a dark eyebrow.

Bilbo felt his cheeks warm slightly. "Just wondering," he said, and he had to avert his gaze when Bofur's expression softened. After that, they did not speak anymore, but Bilbo felt the gulf between them lessen just a bit.

At last, they came to the only place along the Loudwater River where it could be crossed. Bilbo had only read stories of it in the past, and the sight took his breath away. Beautiful all around, Bruinen Ford sat at the edge of the forests around Rivendell, the waters running gently over countless pebbles and stones despite the great roar of the waterfall. As they approached the waters, which were shallow enough for the cart to move through safely, Gandalf held up a hand to stop them. Then he raised his head and began to speak loudly and clearly.

"I am Gandalf, and I have with me friends, seeking entrance into the Last Homely House! We seek shelter and help from my good friend Lord Elrond!" he called.

Silence was his answer. Bilbo and his cousins stayed still, and Bofur sat upright in his seat, gripping the reins tightly as he watched the tree line suspiciously. Twilight had begun to fall, and Bilbo could hear nothing, not even insects or birds, only the roar of the waterfall and the soft trickling of water.

Then Bilbo noticed movement, and he looked over to see an Elf stepping out of the woods. The Elf had dark hair, like all of the Elves he had seen, and she was as tall as Gandalf, if not taller. She wore silver armor and a bow on her back, and Bilbo swallowed nervously to see the daggers strapped to her waist.

But the Elf only crossed her hand over her heart and bowed, then vanished into the woods again, and Bilbo let out a shaky breath.

"Well," Gandalf said, sounding very pleased, "I think they shall have a lovely meal ready for us when we arrive. Bilbo, it is still thirty miles until Imladris, and it will take us half a day to follow the path. I do not think it wise to rest immediately, when we are still so close to the borders of Lord Elrond's lands, but we will be safer within the forest. There are many who guard this place, unseen in the woods, and they will know us as friends.

"We can travel for another hour, then make our camp, and at first light we will travel the last road to Imladris. I think that would be the best plan, Bilbo," Gandalf said, looking back at the cart.

Bilbo glanced back at the road which they had followed for over three weeks, then back to the forests of old, that hid a world that he had dreamed of and yearned to see since he was but a child. How many nights had he read aloud to his father and mother, of the Last Homely House, the city of Imladris, the Elven outpost of Rivendell? Yet Bilbo had never imagined he would ever see Rivendell. He had not even given the Elves a thought, not since he was much younger and less disenchanted with the world around him. Yet now he would see Rivendell for himself.

He only hoped that Lord Elrond could help his cousin. He had read of Elrond and knew of his reputation as a healer, but he could not imagine an Elf of legend lowering himself to help one Hobbit. Still, he hoped, and he trusted Gandalf's judgement, even though he was bothered that he had upset Bofur.

He glanced at his Dwarf friend, who was watching him with dark eyes, his expression nearly unreadable in the lessening light. After a moment Bilbo looked away, glancing at Rory and Otho before nodding to Gandalf.

"Let's go, then."

~

They made camp in a clearing near a small creek, and Bofur set to making a stew while Bilbo worked to make Drogo comfortable. While he was cleaning Drogo's wound and wrapping it with more of the Orcish tincture, Otho came over and sat beside him, his dark Baggins eyes fixed on Drogo's face.

"Bilbo," he said quietly, after Bilbo finished laying Drogo back down, and Bilbo looked over.

"What is it?" he asked, hesitant.

Otho glanced up at him, his jaw setting in a grimace. "How much longer does he have?"

Bilbo stared at him, his heart skipping a beat at Otho's dark tone. "Otho, Drogo's not dying. He's just hurt. We're going to find a healer tomorrow, and he's going to take care of Drogo. I'll not have you speaking of your cousin like that -- he will _be okay_."

Otho's mouth twisted, and he had to avert his gaze, just as Bilbo saw the glimmer of tears. He reached up and gripped Otho's shoulder, and Otho inhaled tightly.

"I promise you, Otho, Drogo will not die. Okay?" he said quietly, and Otho nodded shakily.

"Okay," Otho whispered, and then he turned to look at Bilbo. "I'm really... really glad you're with us, Bilbo," he said quietly, and Bilbo felt a pang in his chest. "It was really rough for me and Drogo, after Shirefall, and having you come home... I know things were rough for a while, and I know you aren't always patient with us, and truth be told I doubted you even liked us for a long time... but you saved Drogo, and you protected us."

Bilbo felt his own eyes sting, and he had to look away, his gaze finding Drogo, whose face was tense with pain. "Both of you, and Rory, you all are my family. I'll do anything to keep you alive and safe. You're all I have," he whispered, and Otho made a low noise.

They sat together for a long moment, and then Rory came to sit with them, a heavy sigh escaping him. "How is he?" Rory asked, leaning forward to watch Drogo.

Bilbo reached out to take Drogo's hand, grasping it tightly as he felt Otho shiver beside him. "His fever is worse, I think, after the rain. He's sleeping, at least, but we should wake him so he can eat," he said quietly, and Rory nodded solemnly.

"This Elf healer, Lord Elrond, he'll be able to help Drogo? Truly?" Rory asked.

Bilbo looked across the clearing but did not see Gandalf, and he supposed that Gandalf had gone into the woods to find an Elf to speak to, or just to walk around and watch for Orcs. He nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to Bofur, who was keeping his attention on the stew simmering over the fire.

"We have no other choice," he said quietly, and Bofur glanced over to look at him. "Not if we want to save Drogo in time."

His cousins could not say anything in response. After a short while, Bofur announced the stew ready, clearing the awkward air with his deep voice, so quiet and solemn compared to his usual boisterous nature. Otho and Rory went to get their suppers, and Bilbo took a bowl back to Drogo, waking him gently and helping him eat what he could.

Afterward, Bilbo and Rory were careful to tuck Drogo into a bedroll, with their blankets heaped on top of him. They all laid down on their bedrolls around Drogo, hoping to make him feel safe, and despite the anxiety and worry, despite the fear for their cousin, the Hobbits all fell asleep quickly, while Bofur and Gandalf watched over them.

~

_It called to him as he sat in meditation, his hands cupped around a black orb that sang with dark power._

_When he heard it, he did not yet know what it was, only that it called to him, beckoned him, urged him to find it._

_He wondered, and then he understood, and he smiled. His other half had woken, and it was searching for him. But where could it be?_

_He tried to call out to it, to reach for that tantalizing power, but something blocked him. Something bright and shining, that reminded him of the world of old, of a time when his words were power and power was truth. What in this world could stop his eye-gaze from seeing it?_

_Anger filled him, and he paced, furious that some power still existed out there that could defy him. Then he stood very still and began to plan. He would find his precious other half, the part of him that he had hidden away long ago, that would make his rule of this pitiful world complete._

_He would resurrect his Nine first. The rituals would be long, but he needed them at his side, to go where he could not. Let them find his one ring!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, and as always, immense and loving thanks to my darling beta readers, theaspetta and eaivalefay!!!
> 
> So I have an art prompt for you guys! If you're interested, you can let me know on here or on my [tumblr](http://amberstarfight.tumblr.com).
> 
> I would LOVE a picture of Pain-Bearer-verse Thorin. He's just like canon Thorin, but wears more regal clothing, plus a circlet of Dwarvish make, and he has a long beard (because in this reality, he did not lose his kingdom and thus did not cut his beard). In my head, I picture his beard to be long and wavy like his hair, but what do I know about beards? In one chapter, I wrote that:
> 
> "Thorin had braids by his large ears, and though his beard was not very large by Dwarf standards, the hair on his chin was very long, hanging over his chest in three braids that came together with a silver hairpiece. The rest of his hair was long and loose[.]"
> 
> So, please draw him! Go crazy! Draw him in whatever you want! You guys are all so amazing ;A; so if you do draw something, let me know! Thanks!!!


	24. Into Rivendell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word Translations** :
> 
>  _Naeggyl_ \-- Pain-bearer  
>  _Mae g'ovannen_ \-- Well met  
>  _Le fael, hîr vuin_ \-- Thank you, my lord  
>  _Guren glassui_ \-- Thank you from my heart

When Bilbo woke but a few hours later, he felt disoriented, as if disconnected from everything around him. He had not dreamt, yet it felt like he had not slept at all. He lay still for a long moment, breathing shallowly as the hollow feeling of _something is wrong_ coursed through him. Then the strange sensation faded away, and Bilbo felt like himself again.

He reached up to his neck, then started when he did not find his necklace. For a moment panic gripped him, before he remembered the events of yesterday, and he felt for the lump of metal in his pocket with relief.

Then he remembered Drogo, and he sat up.

Drogo was sleeping beside him, face pale in the dim firelight, but he was not burning hot. His skin felt strangely cool to Bilbo, and that worried him more than anything.

But his sleep seemed peaceful, so Bilbo crept out of his bedroll and sat outside the circle of warmth his cousins had created, watching the low embers of the fire. Gandalf looked to be sleeping, and Bofur was honing a small block of wood in his hands. They exchanged glances but did not speak, and Bilbo worried at the silence between them.

He did not like fighting with Bofur, who had come to be very important to him, but Bofur had upset him so much yesterday. Why would it matter to Thorin Oakenshield if Bilbo went to Rivendell? If Bofur was not allowed there, because of Thorin's order or some conflict with the Elves, that was another matter. Yet Bofur had specifically said that Thorin would be upset if _Bilbo_ went into the Elven outpost.

Bilbo was reminded of a night several weeks ago when Bofur had talked him into writing a letter to Thorin. Bofur had mentioned writing a report, and at the time Bilbo had thought nothing of it. Now he wondered what Bofur had written. He was not unaware that Bofur's presence was because of a mission, given to him by Thorin, to protect Bilbo.

Bilbo wondered what drove Thorin to go to such lengths for him. The thought made him strangely happy, and at the same time left him wary.

He watched Bofur and wondered, but he dared not ask. It upset him just to think about it, and he did not have the energy to fight with Bofur any more than he already had. Not with Drogo in such a state.

Bilbo averted his gaze when Bofur glanced in his direction, absently reaching into his pocket to pull out his broken necklace. How sorrowful he felt, to see one of his most precious belongings in such a state. At least he had lost none of the trinkets. Maybe after he had made up with Bofur, he would ask his friend to fix it.

The key shimmered in the dim light, and Bilbo thought of Thorin for a moment. He wondered if the Dwarf King had returned home yet. Bilbo glanced up when he felt the weight of someone's gaze, and Bofur quickly looked back down at his hands. With a small huff, Bilbo tucked the key and chain away. He did not want to think about Bofur or Thorin Oakenshield right now.

Instead he puzzled over the two gold rings. He brushed his fingertips over the blue stone of the Dwarven ring and wondered. Why had he not dreamt of Dwarvish things as he once had long ago, when he had first found the ring and put it on? Bilbo remembered those dark dreams clearly: halls of stone and rooms of gold, while a deep voice murmured in his ear in Khuzdul. He still had no idea what it meant, though he had known ever since that day that the ring with its blue stone, so carefully etched, was not meant for him.

Still, why had he not dreamt this time? Perhaps the Dwarven effects of the ring would only be experienced once by its wearer. Yet he had dreamt of nothing at all, not even the Shire as it had been, and that left him a little disturbed. His nights never went without strange dreams, nightmares, or memories. Yet he could do nothing about it, so he tucked the rings back into his pocket, wondering.

After a time he heard a faint whimper, and he turned to see Drogo tossing his head in distress, his breathing shallow and raspy. Bilbo immediately went to his cousin's side and pressed a hand to his cheek. "Drogo?" he called softly.

Drogo gave a small moan when Bilbo touched his face, and Bilbo felt a curl of panic.

"Gandalf," he called, his voice rising, and the Wizard started from sleep, sitting up from his slumped position. Bofur stood from his spot by the fire and came to Bilbo's side.

"What is it, Bilbo?" Bofur asked.

"It's Drogo, he's not breathing right. I don't know what to do," Bilbo said, fretting, and he noticed Rory and Otho sitting up and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Otho took one look at his cousin and turned white, reaching for Drogo's hand.

"The poison must be hurting him. We must hurry then," Gandalf said from behind them, and Bilbo felt anxiety in his gut.

"Come on, Bilbo," Bofur said quietly in his ear, and Bilbo did not resist when his friend helped him up and pushed him over to the cart. Rory joined him in packing up the camp, looking grim in the shallow light, but Bilbo had nothing to say. He did his best to be quick, and he was grateful when at last they all climbed onto the cart, as Gandalf gently laid Drogo between Otho and Bilbo.

Then they rode, and fast.

~

As he rode Glorfindel wondered at the urgency the scout had expressed. Mithrandir had come to visit, and supposedly there had been an injured member of Mithrandir's company. Lord Elrond had been very keen to speak with him these past weeks, but for the Grey Pilgrim to travel with companions was strange, considering how much he wandered over the continent. Still, Glorfindel had volunteered to meet Mithrandir's company and see to the injured person, so he wondered.

An escort followed behind him, slower than his steed, and Glorfindel would leave the company to them if he had to take the injured person back to Lord Elrond. A trivial task, but Glorfindel had volunteered, because he was curious about Mithrandir and wanted to see for himself if the rumors were true.

When Glorfindel came upon Mithrandir and his company, he saw with chagrin a Dwarf driving a cart, with several Halflings behind him. Two of the Halflings, young in face, stared at him wide-eyed, while a third lay tucked into several blankets, with what looked to be the eldest of all of the Halflings beside him. Glorfindel glanced over them, seeing no major injuries in the three Halflings who sat in the cart, nor in the Dwarf -- nor even in Mithrandir.

Mithrandir, to Glorfindel's curiosity, did not have a white cloak. Instead he still wore his famous grey cloak, and Glorfindel could only wonder why. Surely Lady Galadriel had not been wrong.

As he rode closer, the oldest Halfling looked up at him. Dark eyes pierced Glorfindel, and he pulled the reins back suddenly, coming to a stop and staring.

This Halfling was _different_.

Some light, so reminiscent of the Ilúvatar, had touched this Halfling -- shining brightly at his center for any to see. Yet that soft light was blemished, tarnished, darkened with terrible weight. Some horrific event had hurt this Halfling. Some darkness haunted him, clouding the purity that was inherent in his race. Such misery in those dark eyes. Such _pain_. 

_" Naeggyl,"_ he murmured softly, and the Halfling stiffened and backed away, eyes widening. He stared at Glorfindel as if he had uttered a foul curse.

Glorfindel stared back in surprise, wondering at the Halfling's reaction. Did he understand? What had happened that so haunted him? Such suspicion in that dark gaze, now -- but the mystery of this Halfling would have to be puzzled over later. Lord Elrond was waiting.

"Mithrandir," Glorfindel said, turning his attention to the Wizard, who was staring at him and the Halfling with wide eyes. _"Well met. Lord Elrond sends his welcome. We were notified that your company has injuries?"_ He watched the Dwarf bristle at the sound of his language and the Halflings shift in confusion. The distrust gathered between the dark-eyed Halfling's brow softened with understanding, and Glorfindel wondered at a Halfling having knowledge of their language.

"Glorfindel," Mithrandir said, still looking between him and the dark-eyed Halfling with suspicion, but soon the distrust faded and he was smiling at Glorfindel. _"Well met indeed! I am rather pleased to see you. Are you here to take poor Drogo to Lord Elrond?"_

 _"Yes,"_ Glorfindel stated, glancing at the prone Halfling and supposing that this was 'poor Drogo.' _"What befell the Halfling?"_ he asked after a moment, knowing that Lord Elrond would want to know.

Mithrandir's expression darkened. _"We were attacked by Orcs most foul!"_ he said, and Glorfindel's mouth twitched downward at the word. _"Mister Baggins here was struck by a poisoned arrow."_

 _"I will take him to Lord Elrond now,"_ Glorfindel replied after a moment, pulling his mount around to the back of the cart. _"An escort is on their way. Hospitality will be arranged for all members of your company,"_ he continued, his gaze sliding to the Dwarf, who glared at him.

 _"Many thanks,"_ Mithrandir said, and then he turned to look at the company. "This is Glorfindel, a friend of old. He will take Drogo straight to Lord Elrond for healing," he explained in Westron, and Glorfindel nodded impassively.

"Shouldn't trust him," the Dwarf muttered predictably, and the dark-eyed Halfling shot him a quelling look. The Dwarf subsided, and Glorfindel watched them curiously.

Then the dark-eyed Halfling looked at him, and despite the differences between them, Glorfindel was struck by the intent in that gaze. "You will keep him safe?" the Halfling asked quietly, but the tone of it did not sound like a question.

Such an interesting Halfling. "I will," Glorfindel said in the common tongue, and that seemed to satisfy him.

With the help of the Dwarf and the other Halflings, the injured Drogo Baggins was placed in Glorfindel's care. The Halfling did not stir when he was moved, except to moan in pain when his shoulder was jostled. He rested heavily against Glorfindel's chest, sitting in front of him on the saddle, head lolling against his shoulder. Glorfindel kept one arm pressed to the Halfling's body, to keep him upright.

"Lord Elrond will see to him immediately," Glorfindel said, watching the strange little company for a moment. The Dwarf glared at him and the younger Halflings looked disturbed, while the oldest Halfling stared back at him, though his gaze shifted after a moment to watch Glorfindel's charge.

He had questions for Mithrandir. Why were so many young Halflings outside the Shire? Surely the Halfling community was busy rebuilding their ravaged home? Why was a Dwarf with them? And the _naeggyl_ with his dark eyes -- what had happened in his life to create such pain?

Lord Elrond would need to be warned. Such darkness might disturb the members of his household, and accommodations for the Halflings' and Dwarf's diet would have to be made. They would need to discuss this in detail with Mithrandir later, when the strange company was settled and the young Halfling healed.

But that would come later. Glorfindel tucked his charge closer and turned away.

For now, he rode.

~

As they began to ride again, Bilbo watched Glorfindel's figure as he disappeared into the distance with Drogo. He was starting to agree with Bofur's belief that this was a bad idea. The way that Elf had stared at him, and what he had _uttered_ \-- it still gave Bilbo shivers. But he trusted Gandalf, if he did not trust his own judgment.

 _Drogo_ , he thought anxiously. What else could he do but hope that his cousin would be safe? That this Lord Elrond would heal him as Gandalf had promised? He did not voice his worries, though, not wanting to bring any more fuel to the argument that still lingered between Gandalf and Bofur. It seemed to be brewing now, beneath the quiet that held them all still, as they hurried along the path to meet this escort that Glorfindel had promised.

Of course the silence was broken later, but at least it was not by Bilbo.

"This is a bad idea," Bofur said ten minutes later, and Bilbo heard Gandalf give a sigh.

"Master Bofur," the Wizard began, sounding exasperated, "the Elves bear no ill will toward you."

"It's not that! I don't care what a bunch of tree huggers think of me," Bofur objected, ignoring Gandalf's mutter over the insult. "I just don't want them judging Bilbo and the lads for bein' friends with Thorin. The Elves don't like Dwarves, Gandalf -- and that's just fact. They've always treated us like scum no matter where we go. Oh, sure," Bofur scoffed when Gandalf opened his mouth, "they smile while they feed us and call us 'friend' to our faces, but it doesn't change how they would betray us at the first chance.

"I don't expect them to be nice to me, and I surely don't see the point in treating them the same. But they hardly know Hobbits, don't even know how Hobbits think, and they'll only see that Bilbo and the lads are my friends, and they might just treat the Hobbits like they've always treated Dwarves. You know it's true," Bofur finished darkly, and Gandalf looked back at him with a frown.

"I am not denying the conflict in your race's history with the Elves. I'm just saying that in the present, here and now --"

"I know what you're saying," Bofur said shortly to cut Gandalf off, and Gandalf turned back and scowled at the path ahead. Then the Wizard rode forward to put some distance between him and the cart, and they all watched him fume in silence.

Bilbo glanced at his cousins, but Rory and Otho seemed determined to pretend that nothing had happened. They pulled out their daggers and began to talk in low tones, so Bilbo gave a small sigh and crept across the cart to Bofur, sitting down beside him quietly. He clasped his hands nervously in his lap, guessing that Bofur did not want to speak, but he did not know what else to do except offer his company.

At first Bofur stayed stiff beside him, but slowly the tension seeped out of his shoulders, and he glanced over at Bilbo with a regretful mien. "Sorry you had to see that," the Dwarf muttered, and Bilbo sighed.

"You've never been this upset about something before," Bilbo said after a moment.

Bofur kept his eyes on the ponies. "Elves tend to make me feel that way. It's the same for all Dwarves. You saw the look he gave us, and you too," he said after a moment, looking over at Bilbo, who shivered at the reminder of how Glorfindel had stared at him.

"Everything I've read of Elves, they've always sounded nice," he tried, but it was feeble, as he remembered what he had read of the history between Elves and Dwarves.

Bofur gave him a look that said that Bilbo did not fool him, but his expression softened after a moment. "I'm not saying that all Elves are pricks," he started, and had to huff a laugh when Bilbo frowned at him. "I'm just saying -- there's more to it than what you've read in books, or what the Wizard thinks of them. And Thorin, he's never trusted them, for good reason... and I _know_ he'll flay me alive for this," Bofur ended with a mutter, and Bilbo stared at him.

"Thorin is not going to flay you," he said after a moment, feeling amused.

"Shows what you know," Bofur shot back, and Bilbo tried to cover the small snort that escaped him.

"Look, I'll send him a letter explaining everything, alright? And I will specifically ask him not to flay you," Bilbo said, trying not to smile now, and he could see Bofur's mustache twitching.

"Oh, he definitely won't do it if _you_ ask him. Just bat your eyelashes and Thorin won't raise a finger against me," Bofur said sarcastically, but then he started laughing, and Bilbo could not help but join him.

"Bofur!" he cried, warmth spreading across his face. Bofur smirked at him, and Bilbo shook his head but did not stop smiling. He needed this -- he needed Bofur to be positive and smiling and laughing with him, because otherwise he would worry too much, fret too much -- and he did not like to see Bofur with a scowl on his face.

"So does this mean you two aren't fighting anymore?" said a voice by Bilbo's ear, and he jumped and turned to give Otho a scowl. Otho only grinned at him, and Rory leered as he leaned forward.

"Did you kiss and cuddle and make up properly?" Rory crowed. Bofur snorted beside him, watching with amusement as Bilbo debated between shoving Rory and ignoring him.

In the end he settled for huffing and turning around, rolling his eyes as Rory and Otho snickered behind him. Then he turned his attention to Rory when he noticed his cousin's voice grow more serious.

"Bofur, if we have some time later, can you teach us a few things?" Rory asked, and Bofur's gaze sharpened as he eyed Rory thoughtfully.

"More than throwing your knives, I take it?" Bofur asked.

Rory nodded, and behind him Otho had pulled out his dagger, a frown playing at his mouth. "Right, it's all well and good to know how to hit a rabbit, but yesterday, we were _helpless_ when those goblins attacked. You had to face them all alone, and we're not -- we're not _useless_ , Bofur. It's not like I can't take down someone twice my size with a bit of cleverness -- we've all got that, up here," Rory continued, tapping his temple. "But Otho and I, even Drogo... and Bilbo of course, I think we'd all feel better knowing a bit more than the odd rumble with your cousin or the lads down the road. For our protection," he finished, determination glinting in his eye.

For a moment Bilbo was reminded of how much Rory had grown in the past several years. Still his best friend was young, not even an adult, but he had been forced to mature far too quickly, just like Bilbo. In the past several weeks, usually while dinner cooked or before they retired to their bedrolls, Bofur had taken to teaching Bilbo how to use his axe and the boys how to use their knives, mostly for hunting and small tasks. Every time, Rory had jumped into the lessons, asking Bofur many questions and making sure to help Drogo and Otho, who were less enthusiastic about the work but still interested in the lessons.

Learning how to fight, though... and from a warrior like Bofur? It disturbed Bilbo, yet at the same time, the need for knowing how to block a blade or injure an Orc enough to get away pressed into their world imperatively. Maybe once upon a time, Bilbo would have said _no, definitely not, not his cousins who were so young_ \-- but Drogo had been hurt, and Bilbo had been taken far away from his family at the time. If Rory, Otho, or Drogo were ever separated from him or Bofur, they would need to know how to fight.

Bofur was saying, "Can't say I don't agree with you, lad, but I think it's up to Bilbo whether I start teaching you those sorts of things."

"You can teach them," Bilbo said quietly, and the Dwarf beside him sucked in his breath, glancing at Bilbo in surprise. Bilbo gave him a small smile before focusing on his cousins, whose disbelief was visible. "I wouldn't mind learning too. As long as you _behave_ and don't give Bofur any trouble," he warned, and Rory and Otho both nodded quickly. Then they began to thank Bilbo profusely, leaning against his back and clasping his shoulder, and Bilbo's face warmed as he pushed them both away.

Rory and Otho took that as their cue to start asking Bofur questions, and Bilbo listened to the conversation with a small smile. It was a good distraction from the worry for Drogo, and he knew that his younger cousin would love the chance to learn to fight properly when he woke.

A breeze touched his face, and Bilbo looked forward to see the path opening up, more of the white stones that he had noticed since they entered the forest shining in the morning light. No longer did so much moss and dirt cover the path. As the path widened and shaped into a road, more dips in the mountains revealed creeks, clearings, and patches of flowers. This forest was beautiful, with soft pools of light warming the rich ground. In the shadows, Bilbo could see many animals roaming within the forest's depths. Rabbits, moles, wild boars, even a fox tail beneath a bush -- such diverse grounds.

Then the road curved, and Bilbo heard the clops of several hooves, just before a small company of Elves on mounts rode into view. He heard Gandalf greet the Elves and begin to speak to them in Sindarin, as he had the other Elf, but Bilbo did not pay much attention to what was said, instead focusing on the Elves themselves. Very tall, maybe even taller than Gandalf, with many weapons and shining armor. The Elves anticipated trouble, or at least considered the possibility to be strong. When they glanced at the cart, they held a cold regard for Bofur, but only glanced at the Hobbits briefly. Then a few looked back and looked more closely at Bilbo, but their curiosity did not last long, as Gandalf explained more of what had happened.

Bilbo watched them, eyes narrowing slightly, but he did not speak as the Elves began to escort them along the path, while others rode past them, likely to scout around for Orcs.

They rode on. The woods began to open like a flower unfurling in the sun, and the sound of rushing water could be heard after some time. Otho pointed to a white cloud of mist in the distance, and Bilbo told him it must be a waterfall. Rory shouted with glee when they came around another bend and saw the beginnings of a valley, a great waterfall tumbling down the mountainside. Warm air brushed past them, and Bilbo sighed at the beauty of this place.

How he had missed nature. Traveling so much gave him the opportunity to see woods and mountains again, but such places along the East Road looked the same as the one before or after, and they did not often contain such grace as this valley. 

They did not stop for any meal, so Bilbo handed out some jerky to everyone, and it was enough to tide them over. As the day wore on and the valley deepened, Bilbo's nerves swelled, wondering how Drogo was doing, whether Elrond had seen him by then, what that other Elf had told of them.

Then they came around another bend in the path, and Bilbo's breath caught in his throat.

A great house rested over the valley, nestled into a mountain with waterfalls framing its shining halls. Arched roofs curved over winding paths and glittering windows. A lone bridge led from the path to the courtyard, where long steps wove up to the house. The structure was not great enough to be a city, but it sprawled across the mountainside in many different levels, large enough to house a great number of Elves.

Bilbo had read much of Rivendell and its legendary beauty, but to see it in person gave him such an ache that he had not felt in years. Behind him, Rory and Otho's breaths were hushed, and even Bofur seemed impressed by the serenity the Last Homely House held. Gandalf turned to watch their expressions with a smile, but Bilbo barely noticed him, struck by the visage in front of them while worry for Drogo churned in his stomach.

The rest of the ride was quiet, and Bilbo and the others climbed from the cart when they reached the bridge, looking up at the grand house in awe. Gandalf led the way, while the Hobbits followed and Bofur took up the rear, carefully leading the ponies to the other side.

When at last they reached the courtyard, a stately Elf with long dark hair strode down the stairs, bowing slightly to Gandalf. "Mithrandir," he said, glancing over Bilbo and the others before focusing on Gandalf, and they began to speak in that elegant language. Bilbo understood some of it, but his Sindarin was rusty enough after so many years that he did not catch all of the nuances.

"-- _the Halfling sleeps now_ ," the Elf murmured to Gandalf, and something trembled in Bilbo's chest as he breathed out deeply.

"What is he saying?" Rory asked into his ear, but Bilbo shook his head, while Bofur grew tenser and tenser beside them.

After a few minutes, Gandalf turned back to them with a smile. "Drogo is fine! Lord Elrond has seen to him and has given him an antidote for the poison in his body. Lindir will oversee your ponies and belongings, and we are invited to rest before supper. Come," he said, and Rory and Otho went to his side and up the stairs eagerly. 

Bofur twitched beside him and muttered something, but Bilbo touched his arm and leaned over to him, whispering, "Just come on, Bofur. I promise I won't let Thorin flay you." Bofur's expression warmed when he glanced at Bilbo, and finally he nodded grudgingly and followed after Gandalf. Bilbo looked up at the Elf, presumably Lindir, who watched him with dark, impassive eyes. He gave a small, hesitant smile, but the Elf gave no response, so Bilbo hurried after his friends, and the Elf followed them.

As Lindir guided them through the halls of Lord Elrond's home, which was splendid in all ways to Bilbo who had only dreamed of such finery and detail, Bilbo noticed several Elves coming to the edge of the halls to watch them, murmuring curiously to each other. Nearly all of them were dark-haired, though a small number had pale hair like Glorfindel, and all of them had various reactions to Bilbo's company.

These Elves smiled when they saw Gandalf, and in their gazes burned curiosity and respect. These Elves glanced at Bofur, and their faces grew colder, but they seemed ambivalent when they looked upon Otho.

These Elves did double takes upon seeing Bilbo, and to a lesser extent Rory. Then their expressions grew still with shock, with darker emotions simmering beneath their placidity.

These Elves saw something in him and Rory -- the darkness that had tainted them from that place, perhaps. Maybe the Elves just saw them as victims. But to Bilbo, who had forced himself to learn how to watch for changes in temperament, these Elves had only judgment for him and his cousin. Pity, condescension, wariness -- even disgust. But all of these emotions were fleeting, for the expressions of Elves were difficult to read.

Bilbo could read them, though, and he did not like what he saw. Perhaps behind those expressions were only initial reactions, not true thoughts. Bilbo did not know, and he did not want to ask, either.

Bilbo stared back at these Elves, his mouth turning down into a frown, remembering what the other Elf had called him. How was it fair that even here, even amongst a race that prided itself on purity, his pain was transparent for any to see? He knew enough Sindarin, having read of Elves and their language extensively as a child, to know what the first Elf had called him. 

Bilbo said nothing though. He averted his gaze after the Elves began to look away from him, and he crossed his arms as he walked. He drew into himself, making himself seem smaller, wary of so many tall beings after being surrounded by Hobbits for so long. Even being in Bree, which had so many Men and Women, did not give him such anxiety as all of these Elves, who _looked_ at him, who seemed to _know_ as no one else could.

Let them stare if they wanted. He was not here to see them -- he was here to save his cousin. 

The Elves dispersed after a while, their low voices rising as they walked away, but Bilbo paid them no mind. Lindir slowed when they came to an upper hallway and stopped outside an open door, conversing quietly with someone inside. Then he stepped back, and another Elf left the room and came to stand in front of them, staring imperiously down at the Hobbits and Dwarf.

He was very tall, taller than Gandalf even, and he had upon his stern brow a circlet of silver. He wore robes of soft brown and grey, and long braids hung down from his temples. Pointed ears rose up against his dark hair.

"Lord Elrond," Gandalf said warmly, and the tall Elf's mien softened with a faint smile.

"Mithrandir. _Mae g'ovannen ,"_ Elrond said, moving to embrace Gandalf. When he pulled back, his gaze focused on the small company behind Gandalf and Lindir, and almost unerringly, those pale eyes found Bilbo first.

Bilbo watched Elrond very carefully, but there was no hint of the Lord Elf's thoughts on that impassive brow. Elrond watched him for a long moment, but then he swept his gaze over Bilbo's cousins and Bofur, nodding in greeting.

"This is Bilbo Baggins, the head of the Baggins family and young Drogo's cousin. With him are his cousins Otho Sackville-Baggins and Rorimac Brandybuck, and their friend Bofur of Erebor," Gandalf said, gesturing to each of them as he said their names, and Elrond's gaze lingered on Bilbo again.

"Welcome to Imladris," Elrond said in his deep voice. "Poor circumstances though they were, it is fortuitous that you have come to my house at such a time. I offer my regrets for what has befallen your people," he murmured, and Bilbo shrunk back a bit at the reminder.

 _" Le fael, hîr vuin,"_ Bilbo said quietly, and Elrond's expression brightened with interest, while everyone else shifted in surprise.

"You can speak Elvish?" Bofur said in shock. Gandalf looked delighted, and Bilbo felt his face flush.

"Just a little," he said softly, and Elrond graced him with a smile.

"You speak it quite well," the Elf Lord said. "I imagine you wish to know about your cousin?"

Bilbo straightened at the mention of Drogo, his shoulders squaring back as he looked up at Elrond again. "Yes. Is he alright? Has he woken?" he asked, more clearly as he focused on his cousin.

Elrond's smile faded into a more serious mien, the healer in him taking over for the lord. "Your timing was just right, for young Drogo may not have survived had you gone anywhere else. He responded well to my efforts, though, and now he sleeps peacefully. Whoever took care of his wound on the way here did a fine job," he said, and Bilbo felt Rory and Otho look at him, but he only gave a small nod.

"May we see him?" he asked politely, and Elrond watched them for another moment before stepping aside.

"Of course," he murmured, sweeping an arm toward the room he had just left, and Bilbo wasted no time in hurrying through, Rory and Otho right on his heels. He noticed Elrond moving closer to Lindir and Gandalf, but he paid them no mind, his attention turning completely to Drogo.

The room was spacious, and a grand bed of silken linens stood in the middle of it, with thin curtains parting to reveal Drogo's form sleeping in the middle, looking so small compared to the great pillows behind him. A small stool had been set beside the bed, and Bilbo used it to climb up, moving to Drogo's side and reaching up to stroke back his dark curls. Drogo's color had returned, and he breathed easily beneath Bilbo's hand. His shoulder was carefully wrapped with soft bandages.

Bilbo felt the mattress dip as Rory and Otho crawled over to him, and he reached over and wrapped his arm around Otho's shoulders, feeling Otho breathe in sharply in relief. "Drogo," Otho whispered, and Rory's hand came up to grip Bilbo's shoulder. Their cousin was alright. He was healing, he was not dead, he was _safe_.

Drogo did not wake, but the three Hobbits sat with him for some time, talking quietly to each other of Rivendell and what they had seen of it. Gandalf and the Elves left them alone for a while, while Bofur sat at the entrance, keeping watch while giving them their privacy. One Elf returned to offer them water and a tray of snacks, made of fresh vegetables and sweet herbs, and Bilbo and his cousins relished the treat.

The conversation was light enough that Bilbo did not speak of the Elves' reactions to him and Rory, but he noticed a vague darkness in Rory's eyes, as if being surrounded by such serenity troubled him. It troubled Bilbo, too, but at the same time he wished to take in all of this peace and wash it over the darkness within him, to bleed out every bit of evil that he had seen in his life. He felt more and more relaxed as the afternoon progressed into evening, and he even napped for a while beside Drogo, while Otho and Rory lounged on Drogo's other side, speaking in low tones.

Then Gandalf walked into the room and told them that supper was ready to be served, so Bilbo and his cousins rose and went to another room where their packs had been left. They washed themselves and changed into clothes that did not smell so heavily of travel. Then they followed Gandalf through the halls to an open terrace dotted with low tables, where Elves had already gathered to eat. Gandalf went to sit at a higher table with Elrond and the pale-haired Elf from earlier, while Bofur, Bilbo, and his cousins were led to a smaller table at the edge of the terrace, where they were served by a pair of smiling Elves who avoided looking at Bilbo too long at first.

The food was delicious though, and Bilbo managed to ignore the conversation from Gandalf's table, where the three tall beings were bent toward each other to speak in low tones. He even managed to ignore the glances and curious murmurs of the Elves around them. Bofur was tense and disdainful toward the lack of meat in their supper, but soon he had relaxed enough to tell a story to Otho and Rory.

Bilbo learned rather quickly that whenever they finished a dish, another one quickly replaced it with a new arrangement of vegetables, soft breads, or grains with herbs. Otho and Rory seemed to realize this too, as they began eating more and with gusto, polishing off whole platters easily, and Bilbo noticed the astonished looks of the Elves around them as the three Hobbits and one Dwarf put away more food than the rest of the tables.

For Bilbo and his cousins, though, it was the first chance in years to eat a proper meal, instead of one where they had to resist eating as much as they could, because another bite one night meant one less bite the next. At first the Elves serving them seemed disturbed by their appetite, but then they began to embrace it as a type of game, to see what they could put in front of the Hobbits that they would not enjoy. One or two of the Elves would sit with them and watch them eat, then run off to find another plate, insisting that the kitchens were well equipped to handle the stomachs of a few Halflings, when Rory questioned where they got all their food.

There was very little not to enjoy. The only things that Bilbo subtly pushed toward Otho and Bofur were the dishes that contained mushrooms, and even those smelled good enough that Bilbo was sorely tempted to try them. Only memories held him back, and he did not mind that much. Everything was delightful.

Near the end of their supper, a scrumptious scent caught Bilbo's attention, and he turned to see Otho spooning a thick sauce with dark bits of some vegetable onto crisp bread. His mouth watered immediately, and he watched as Otho ate it and gave a low sigh of appreciation, making the two Elves behind him giggle with glee.

"Do you like them?" one of the Elves asked, and Otho beamed at her, while her friend began plating more helpings to share with Bilbo and the others. Bilbo waited for his serving eagerly, and when the small plate was set in front of him, he smiled up at the Elf in thanks.

"Tell me what you think," the Elf said, winking as he watched him, and Bilbo picked up the bread to take a bite.

But then Rory was at his side, holding down his arm and leaning in to whisper to him frantically, "No, Bilbo, it's mushrooms."

Bilbo froze, his eyes widening as he looked closer at the bread, seeing now the soft meat of a mushroom, dark and thick and tender. The Elf's expression slipped a bit with worry, and Bilbo heard Rory telling him, "It's nothing bad, he's just allergic is all," and Bilbo felt his stomach twist. He had almost eaten a mushroom.

It smelled so good, though.

"No, it's fine, I'm not allergic," he heard himself say, and then he bit into the crisp bread. Flavor exploded on his tongue as the heady sauce melted into his taste buds, and Bilbo closed his eyes as he began to chew, savoring the earthiness paired with the delicate sauce, followed by the buttery crunch of bread. He chewed until the flavor had all but melted away, and then he swallowed, staying still for a long moment, wavering between happiness and shock. The bite of mushroom settled in his stomach, and Bilbo felt no nausea, no disgust, only a sense of sadness that he had ignored one of his favorite things for so long. Then he opened his eyes and smiled up at the Elf.

 _" Guren glassui,"_ he said softly, and the Elf stared at him in stunned silence. His cousins were all mute, their eyes wide as they looked between the plate and Bilbo's hand, and even Bofur's expression was twisted with surprise.

"It's really good," Bilbo said after a moment, and he felt his eyes grow warm with tears. "It tastes really good," he tried again, but his voice cracked and he had to look down. 

"Bilbo? Bilbo, are you going to be sick? Do you need a basin?" Rory asked urgently, rubbing his back, but Bilbo shook his head and gently pushed Rory away.

"I'm fine, okay? I don't feel sick. I just... I couldn't help it," Bilbo said weakly, and he could not meet Rory's eyes when he heard the plaintive sound from his cousin's throat. He looked at the bite still left in his hand, wondering if he really should. Then he found he could not resist, and he made a small noise when the amazing flavor burst through his senses again, ignoring Rory's movement to stop him.

Then he scrubbed at his eyes and picked up Rory's piece, offering it to him. "Look, try this, alright? It's really good," Bilbo insisted, and Rory started when he saw the bite of mushrooms in Bilbo's hand.

For a split second, Bilbo felt the strike of fear -- _why did I even_ , he thought, remembering countless times when he offered a different mushroom to other Hobbits -- but then Rory's gaze hardened as if to say _don't you dare_ and he took the morsel from Bilbo's hand, eating it decisively.

Then Rory groaned as he realized the flavor, and he leaned into Bilbo's side with bliss. "That is _amazing_ ," Rory moaned.

Bilbo started laughing, a hiccup escaping him as he reached up to wipe his eyes. "Foolish Rory," he said, and Rory giggled as he finished off the mushrooms, leaning across the table to convince Otho to give him more. Otho did, watching Rory and Bilbo with a suspicious gaze, but Bilbo smiled at him and Otho's sour expression softened. Then he and Rory ate more, happy to have a proper mushroom after years of never touching them.

All the while, the Elves watched them, enthralled with their joy.

~

Supper ended with a choice of desserts, and Bilbo pretended not to notice when Otho and Rory both snuck a few of the treats into their pockets. Long after the other Elves had gone away, leaving only Gandalf, Glorfindel, and Elrond at the higher table watching them, the Hobbits and Dwarf finished eating and sat together talking, until the Elves cleaning up the tables not so subtly began to hint at them leaving.

So Bilbo and his friends were led back to the hall where Drogo slept, and they learned that they each had been given a room around Drogo. But Bilbo did not have the heart to leave Otho or Rory alone, so he convinced Lindir that one room would be enough for the three of them, while Bofur took his own room across from theirs. 

Bilbo sat with Rory and Otho for a while, sharing the pilfered desserts and pointedly not speaking about his upset at supper. The call of proper sleep proved too seductive for his cousins, after a time. Soon they retired to the large bed, curling close to each other as Bilbo walked around the room to blow out the lanterns.

Bilbo's thoughts returned to supper, and the lingering shock of it left him unable to sleep. So he went to sit on a bench outside Drogo's room, taking with him one of his favorite books, _The Battle of Dagorlad_ , an old text that his mother had passed along to him years ago. He enjoyed historic tales, and he had been overjoyed when he had found the dusty tome hiding beneath his bed, ripped in a few places with burn marks on the spine, but still in one piece.

He read for some time, until he heard a rustle and looked up to find an Elf staring at him.

Bilbo stilled at the intensity in the Elf's gaze, but after a moment he realized that the Elf was not staring at him, but at his _book_. He twitched the book a bit, and the Elf seemed to shake himself, starting on his path again. Bilbo watched him walk away, curious and a little anxious about the Elf's expression, but soon the lure of Oropher's determination drew him back to his story.

A while later, he heard another rustle accompanying firm steps, and he looked up see the same Elf walking toward him. The Elf stopped in front of him and held out a slim book, bound with green leather with a red ribbon tucked inside. Bilbo stared at the book, nonplussed.

"You might find this version more forthright," the Elf said lightly, holding the book closer to Bilbo. After a long moment in which Hobbit and Elf stared each other down, Bilbo cautiously reached out to take the book. When he opened it, he found a drawing of the region east of the Misty Mountains, marked with lines in different inks that were labeled as 'Elendil,' 'Elrond,' 'Oropher,' 'Amdír,' 'Durin IV,' and 'Sauron.'

"Oh," Bilbo said with surprise, turning the page to find _War of the Last Alliance_ written gracefully in Westron, underlined with _Battle of Dagorlad_. "Durin IV? The Dwarves were part of the battle?" he asked, looking up at the Elf in interest.

"The translator of the version you hold in your hands was... inaccurate," the Elf said stiffly. "This translation holds true to the first-hand accounts. You may borrow it, if you wish."

Bilbo brightened with a smile, eagerly turning the next page and drawing his hand down the careful script. He lost himself in the pages for a few moments, seeing many differences from his old book already. "This is lovely. Thank you," he said, looking back up, but the Elf was already gone. Bilbo stood up and looked up and down the hall, but there was no sign of the Elf, so he shook his head in bemusement and returned to his bench, delving into the book immediately.

He fell asleep somewhere between the Elves and Men crossing the Misty Mountains and the first mention of Durin IV, Thorin's ancestor and one of the great Dwarf Lords. He woke a half hour later, groaning as he felt a crick in his neck, and he looked mournfully at the book, knowing that he would get to read about Durin IV soon, but he was too tired to continue. So he stood and looked around for his old copy, but he could not find it anywhere.

For a few minutes, Bilbo fretted over the disappearance of his favorite book. Then he remembered the Elf who had visited him, and he wondered with shock if the Elf had taken his book. Bilbo's expression darkened, and he stomped into the room, tossing the green book aside with irritation.

 _That horrible Elf, how dare he take my book!_ Bilbo thought, but then he had to convince himself that he had no proof, even if the evidence was clear. He crawled into bed beside Rory and fumed for a little while, but eventually he fell asleep, lulled by the soft sheets and subtle scent of lavender in the plush pillow.

When Bilbo woke the next morning, he searched again for his book, but there was no trace of it. So Bilbo went to breakfast in a foul mood, and only one of Bofur's stories about Erebor could draw a smile out of him. Breakfast was as enjoyable as last night's supper, and once again Bilbo and his cousins ate themselves full, savoring the soft cheeses and delectable fruit pastries. 

Gandalf offered them the chance to explore Rivendell, but Bilbo wanted to check on Drogo first and look around once more for his book. When he reached the room he shared with his cousins, he found a surprise waiting for him.

A book was sitting on the bedside table, on top of the green book. When Bilbo opened it, he found the pages of his favorite book. It had been bound anew with soft brown cloth and the pages gently wiped clean of soot and dirt. Bilbo stared down at his book, shocked into silence. Had that Elf done this?

He left his room quickly and searched about the hall, but there was no sign of the Elf, and when Bofur came trudging up to find him, he gave Bilbo a concerned look.

"What's the matter, Bilbo?" Bofur asked.

Bilbo looked down at the books in his hands, wishing he could find that Elf and thank him. "It's nothing, Bofur," he said after a moment, going back into the room to set the books down. "I think I found a kindred spirit, is all," he said, and no matter how many times Bofur asked him to clarify, Bilbo did not explain what had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait! Work and life got in the way, as usual. This chapter was also difficult to write, mostly for research reasons and characterization, but I'm rather pleased with how it turned out. Enjoy! Thank you for your patience and support! Also thank you for the tumblr follows, and of course, thank you to my amazing betas, theaspetta and eaivalefay!
> 
> I also learned a trick with the translation of words. **Anytime you see text you do not understand, just hover your mouse over it, and a translation will show.** I'll also include translations, for those who are reading this via mobile.
> 
> The dish that Bilbo tries is based on [this](http://s3.amazonaws.com/foodspotting-ec2/reviews/2074274/thumb_600.jpg?1342579276), an appetizer at Trader Vic's, made with morel mushrooms and chardonnay. It is AMAZING and if you ever get the chance, try it! Worth it!


	25. A balm to the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word meanings** :  
>  _naeggyl_ \-- pain-bearer  
>  _gwaur_ \-- dirty

As Lindir showed them around Rivendell, Bilbo felt some old tension seep out of him at seeing such a historic place for the first time. 

_If only there was time more to stay here,_ Bilbo thought, gazing around him in awe.

Rivendell touched Bilbo in a way no other place ever had. The tranquil beauty of the valley left him sighing each time he looked out a window. Every path he took opened up to a new and fascinating world for him to explore. No matter where he looked, no matter where he went, Bilbo was enraptured.

At first Bilbo had been afraid of the Elves, for the looks they gave him and the word they murmured as he walked past. Yet even the morning after he and his family had arrived, a few Elves approached him, touched his curls or face, and murmured _' naeggyl.'_ It had terrified Bilbo the first time, but then at breakfast, the two Elves, who had brought them so many wonderful dishes last night, came up to him and thanked him, very simply. 

Then they brought Bilbo and his cousins a truly amazing breakfast, with foods delectable and bountiful. He had not eaten like that in so many years, and he was so very thankful for it. The fruit alone had brought tears to his eyes. Curiously, a large bowl of fresh strawberries had appeared at Bilbo's elbow after that.

At the time Bilbo had been distracted by the disappearance of his book, but later he wondered. Some of the Elves could not look at him, somehow disturbed by his very presence, but others smiled at him each time they saw him.

Bilbo didn't know what to make of it.

Despite the behavior of some of the members of Elrond's house, they treated him no worse than how they behaved toward his cousins. Mostly, the Elves looked upon the Hobbits as they might children, always offering Bilbo and his cousins treats or reaching out to pinch their curls. Not a single Elf had curly hair like a Hobbit, or even wiry hair like a Dwarf. 

Bilbo and Rory had both flinched the first few times it happened, at these very tall Elves touching them, but Rory soon grew used to it. Bilbo did not, and he ducked out of reach every time he saw an Elf's hand move. Bilbo could tell that his reactions bothered the Elves, but he could not help his behavior. They did not shun him for it, at least. Instead, they only gave him perturbed looks, but they never questioned him.

They treated him far better than they behaved toward Bofur, though, which _bothered_ Bilbo. The Elves were cold to Bofur, offering snide sarcasm or simple platitudes -- and that was when they bothered to speak in Westron at all. Most of the time, the Elves spoke only in Sindarin around Bofur, and what Bilbo understood was not very kind, to say the least.

Bofur gave the Elves an equally antagonistic response, scoffing at their sarcasm and talking very loudly whenever the Elves seemed to encourage quiet. When he was not making fun of Elves or pestering Bilbo about his 'kindred spirit,' Bofur spent as much time as possible ignoring the Elves and comparing everything under Elrond's roof to Thorin's palace in Erebor, to Rory's and Otho's amusement. Bilbo was less enthused, and he tried to reason with Bofur about it at first, until he heard an Elf call Bofur _gwaur_ under his breath. Then the Hobbit could only feel exasperation at all of them. 

Despite his annoyance, Bilbo could not help but marvel over Rivendell. Elrond's home was so unlike any smial of the Shire or any dwarrowhall deep in Moria. The halls and pathways were wide with graceful architecture. What furniture Bilbo saw (tall as it was, like everything else in Rivendell) looked rather inviting, for all that Rivendell lacked the cheery colors any proper smial would have.

Then Lindir ushered them into the gardens, and Bilbo took that thought back. _Here_ was the array of brilliant colors that would make any Hobbit proud.

Elrond's garden curled around Rivendell in an embrace, with an array of intense color, of every flower, shrub, and tree Bilbo had ever seen, and so many more he could not hope to recognize. Walls of roses, climbing up entwining trellises and blooming in every shade Bilbo had ever seen, and quite a few he had not, despite living next to the Greenhands for all of his childhood. Sweetpea in brilliant pinks with celadine in bright yellow hues, brushing against the trails of foxglove and snapdragons. Delicate purple blossoms twisting along thick vines. So many flowers, in so many colors, and Bilbo longed to draw them, to smell every flower and lay under every bush. He thought of his mother and how she would have loved this place, of his old neighbors who would sell every last seed they owned to study the different arrangements of flowers and shrubs.

Upon seeing Elrond's gardens, Bilbo politely begged Lindir if they could please have lunch outside, maybe under that tree, if it wouldn't be a bother. Then Rory chimed in about how they wouldn't be any trouble, _Hobbit's promise_ , and Otho joined them and said that they wouldn't pick a single flower. Gandalf had a sudden coughing fit when Lindir was suddenly faced with three pleading Hobbits with bigger and sadder eyes than any Elfling he had ever met.

"Of course," stuttered Lindir, and Bilbo and his cousins immediately rushed off to explore the spectacular gardens with glee. Bofur followed with a look of bemusement.

The sheer amount of care the Elves had put into the gardens greatly impressed Bilbo, who had learned some gardening from his neighbors the Greenhands. He had learned alongside Holman Greenhand at his father Halfred's knee, though not nearly to the extent that Holman learned. Enough, at least, that in the summer before his kidnapping, Bilbo had a tidy little herb garden of his own for his mother's recipes.

As Bilbo admired a plentiful wisteria tree, he felt sadness that the Greenhands and their cousins the Gamgees would likely never see this place. He would certainly tell Holman about it when his childhood friend reached the Vale with the rest of the farmers, though. Perhaps he could buy some seeds from the Elves? He would have to ask Lord Elrond.

Between the Hobbits' happiness over the gardens and the Elves that began to gather in the eaves of the nearby pathways, Lindir's mild suggestion for an outdoor party was met with rousing agreement. Tables and cushions appeared from rooms unknown, Elves with delicate instruments took to a round dais and began to strum softly together, and soon the entire garden was filled with the members of Elrond's house, talking and laughing in the relaxing atmosphere. Lunch was served to cheers and song. Even Bofur, as uncomfortable as he looked, pulled out a flute and began an intense competition with a rosy-cheeked Elf playing a long oboe.

At one point Bilbo was distracted from his lunch when he noticed the Elf who had taken his book lingering at the edge of the garden and talking with Glorfindel. Bilbo made to stand, wanting to catch that Elf and question him, but his attention was torn away when Otho jumped up a second later and shouted, _"Drogo!"_

Bilbo turned sharply and saw Drogo walking slowly toward them, Gandalf and Elrond following him sedately. Drogo seemed overwhelmed by all of the Elves, and his face was paler than Bilbo would have liked, but when he saw Otho, his entire expression lit up with the same fierce happiness that burned in Bilbo's chest. The joy that struck him next left him breathless, and he was only a step behind Otho as he crossed the open clearing to Drogo. Only a moment later, Drogo and Otho were both wrapped up in Bilbo's arms, while he hid his face in Drogo's dark curls. 

"The music woke me," Drogo murmured into Bilbo's ear, and Bilbo laughed as his eyes grew wet. Rory appeared beside him, followed by Bofur who clapped Drogo on his good shoulder and exclaimed, "Good to see you up, lad!"

Bilbo pulled back and checked over his cousin, clucking his tongue, and Drogo grew red in the face at the attention. So Otho and Bilbo pulled him to their table and cajoled him into trying everything within reach, ignoring Elrond's admonition that Drogo should eat lightly.

"What happened, Bilbo? I hardly remember anything after you fell," Drogo said, popping a warm pastry into his mouth and sighing.

"Oh! I never asked you about that, Bilbo!" Rory said in shock, and Bilbo realized that he had not told anyone what had happened to him in the woods.

An Elf nearby, who looked quite like Elrond with his gray eyes, interjected, "Yes, tell us of your battle that gave poor Drogo such a wound!"

"I would have been a lot worse off if Bilbo hadn't protected me himself," Drogo said with a faint blush, looking rather proud as he rubbed his shoulder. "He fought off a dozen goblins for me!"

And suddenly Bilbo was the center of attention, and he immediately grew flustered by all the Elves looking at him. "It was only a few," he tried, and he jumped when Bofur sat down beside him and clapped an arm around Bilbo's shoulders.

"Oh no you don't, Bilbo Baggins," Bofur boomed. Bilbo tried, as surreptitiously as he could, to crawl out from under Bofur's arm, but the Dwarf was having none of it. "We're going to tell everybody all about how you saved our lives, and then we can't leave here without these Elves knowing how you saved King Thorin!"

"The Dwarf King of Erebor?" an Elf exclaimed, and another murmured, "But such a small Halfling..."

Bilbo tried again to escape Bofur's grasp, but he was well and truly stuck in place. Bofur grinned widely and said, "The one and only! And our Bilbo here, if it wasn't for him, we wouldn't have won our battle with Azog the Defiler!"

Bilbo immediately flinched when he heard the name, but he also heard several intakes of breath as the Elves processed Bofur's statement. After a short moment, Bilbo sighed and mustered what little courage he could find. "What happened on our journey here was another matter entirely. It wasn't that impressive! There were only six Orcs on Wargs, and I only had to deal with three of them, really," he insisted, but Bofur scoffed.

"Like taking on three Warg riders by your lonesome is so trivial. No, see, I was drivin' the cart, so I couldn't protect our Hobbits here. Gandalf went off into the woods to fight some archers, and so it was only Bilbo who could defend us! Then the Orcs closed in," Bofur said with great emphasis, clearly enjoying himself as he got into the story, "and it was just little Bilbo with his little sword --"

"It's not _little_ ," Bilbo muttered, but then Otho jumped into the conversation over him.

"Bofur, you didn't see Bilbo with that sword! He saw a goblin reach for Drogo, and he bellowed fiercely, and then he swung his sword and knocked the goblin back! But only a second later, it felt like --"

"That's when I was shot!" Drogo said loudly, and Otho nodded with wide eyes, faintly disturbed by the memory.

Rory continued, "And then another goblin came up, and it jumped onto the cart while Bilbo was trying to stop the bleeding, and Drogo was screaming and hollering --"

"I was _not_ screaming, you big oaf," Drogo started hotly, "and anyway, it doesn't matter what I was doing, because that's when Bilbo jumped up and stabbed that foul beast with his sword, and it _fell_ \-- and good riddance to the monster! It fell, and that's when Bilbo said --"

"I said it should leave my family alone," Bilbo said hurriedly, and Drogo narrowed his eyes at him, but Bilbo shot him a glare.

"And it grabbed you," Rory said ominously, sitting up and leaning over Otho's shoulder, while the Elves behind him watched. "And you fell! But somehow you came back to us in one piece, Bilbo. Tell us how!"

"Yes," said another Elf with gray eyes, who shared a great likeness to the first who sat behind Rory. "Tell us how, Halfling! You must be very skilled to escape a Warg rider."

Bilbo felt heat burning in his cheeks when attention swung back to him, awe and interest tingeing the Elves' expressions.

"Well," he fumbled, and then he sighed. "I couldn't let them have my cousin, could I?" he explained, and Drogo beamed at him. It was not a story of bravery, or of a warrior's prowess, but Bilbo saw respect dawn in the eyes of the Elves around him all the same. The desperation to protect his family must have touched these Elves, for their gazes softened and they looked upon him in wonder.

"So you fell, and..." Drogo trailed off, and Bilbo shifted beneath Bofur's arm.

"Well, I certainly wasn't graceful about it! The cart was going so fast, I fell rather hard and hurt my shoulder for it. I definitely couldn't fight them off, they were far too fast, so I ran into the forest," Bilbo explained, but this did little to ease his audience.

"But Orcs are fast on their feet!" exclaimed the first Elf with slate gray eyes. 

Bilbo nodded slightly in agreement, settling into his 'story-telling' mindset. _Just imagine them as fauntlings,_ he thought, shivering a bit and pressing closer to Bofur's warmth.

"Yes, they are, but Hobbits are much faster!" Bilbo said, his voice growing louder as it carried over the garden clearing. "We can be as silent and as quick as a rabbit when we need to be. And I needed to be very quiet on that day. Six riders followed us, and one died by my hand. Three rode after Bofur and the cart, but two and their Wargs went after me. I had to be faster than them! I had to be silent! And I was -- and I was very fortunate, because I found a hole to hide in."

Bilbo felt Bofur's arm slip down, but he kept talking, thinking of the ring in his pocket and _knowing_ that he should never let anybody here know of it. Nothing good would if the knowledge of his magic ring was spread around, Bilbo thought, something in the back of his mind urging his silence. "There I hid, until they went away. Orcs have good senses, but they are stupid if you can fool them, and I did that day. Then, when they were gone, I made my way back to my kin, where Bofur had finished off the rest with his axe, and my cousins were safe and sound... except poor Drogo, of course," Bilbo finished, his gaze cutting to Drogo, whose cheeks turned pink at being called 'poor Drogo' again.

Bofur began snickering beside him, but Bilbo elbowed him hard, so Bofur coughed and squeezed his shoulder again.

"Brave, brave lad, our Bilbo. But what he did for poor Drogo was only a small part of what he did for our King Thorin," Bofur said, bright eyes glittering as the Elves, against their better judgment, looked on him in interest.

"It all began about seven years ago, when King Thorin looked at the Misty Mountains and said, _'It is time to reclaim Khazad-dûm,'_ \-- and so he did," Bofur began.

Thankfully, Bilbo was left to wallow in his glass of juice as Bofur grew into his story, drawing back from the center attention and curling up against a large cushion behind Bofur. He watched his friend as Bofur wove the story of Thorin's march, remembering the small details from listening in on Azog's meetings with his commanders.

_'The Dwarves marched on Bolg's kingdom! It was destroyed!'_

_'Thorin hunts us, master. He seeks the head of the Defiler!'_

_'Those rotten Dwarves, they've wiped out Undolog's clan!'_

And Azog's dark promise: _'His head shall be mine.'_ But Azog had returned from battle missing his arm and furious beyond madness. Bilbo had suffered horrifically for several weeks after Azog had lost his arm to Thorin's axe.

With a start he realized the direction his thoughts had gone, and Bilbo drew back from his memories, focusing on Bofur's words.

"Every clan we found, every clan we struck down," Bofur was saying, and his tone was darker now, his smile gone, "we found more of them. Clapped in chains, and all of them starving, all of them hurt and scared and sick, and each time, King Thorin grew angrier, pushing us harder and faster. Then, seven years after we marched from Erebor, we reached the center of Moria, the oldest of our ancestor's halls."

Bilbo realized with a start that Bofur was speaking of his brethren. Had Thorin truly been so horrified, so angered by the Hobbits' enslavement? He glanced past Bofur at the Elves around them, seeing silent expressions of horror. Had these Elves not known of his people's plight? Had they not cared? After a moment Bilbo had to look away, staring resolutely at the glass in his hand. What did it matter, anyway? The Elves had not helped them. The Dwarves had.

"By the time we reached Azog's hall, we knew how to rescue the Hobbits without getting them hurt. General Dwalin, son of Fundin, organized a raid that distracted Azog's army, and a small group of us stole into the halls to get the Hobbits. Thorin and Gandalf, determined as they were, led us right to where the Hobbits were kept, and we got all of them out. But then a wee Hobbit lass tugged King Thorin himself down and told him there was one more," Bofur said, and he looked back at Bilbo knowingly.

Suddenly Bilbo was the center of attention again, but he dared not speak. He only looked up, expression solemn as he met Bofur's gaze, and he gave a little nod.

Bofur's expression softened in encouragement. "King Thorin and I went together to find this last Hobbit, and that was when we found Bilbo Baggins himself, hidden away like a treasure. But the Defiler coveted his slaves," Bofur said darkly, and Bilbo held himself very still. "He found them gone and chased Thorin, Gandalf, and Bilbo through the halls, while the rest of us went ahead. Nearly caught them, too, but Gandalf's magic saved them."

"It would be a dark day indeed when I let a creature so foul as Azog the Defiler have the best of me," Gandalf chimed in, and Bilbo jumped at how close his voice was.

"Aye, you escaped, and the battle would have gone far differently had you fallen there. When they returned, we took care of the Hobbits and sent them home, and you know, I watched myself as Bilbo walked away with his kin. But Thorin suspected -- rightly so," Bofur said, glancing at Bilbo with a grin, "that Bilbo would refuse to leave so long as the Defiler was alive. And lo and behold, in the middle of our final battle -- a Hobbit appeared, and none other than our Bilbo Baggins!"

There was another soft collective gasp, and they looked at Bilbo in surprise, but Bilbo kept his gaze on Bofur. He noticed Rory, Otho, and Drogo out of the corner of his eye, staring at him with admiration and awe. Rory looked smug, and Bilbo smiled a bit as he remembered his family and friends covering his escape.

"And what a sneaky Hobbit our Bilbo is! Not even our best tracker, my own cousin Bifur, could keep up with him. Lost him in the caves between our camp and Azog's halls, until Bilbo was caught and taken to Azog himself!"

"Oh, but how did you get away, Master Baggins?" one of the Elves asked, and Bilbo felt himself grow flustered.

"That is --"

"My King saved him," Bofur said simply. "King Thorin saw the Defiler take Bilbo, and he called out a challenge for the Orc to face him. King Thorin fought his way to the Defiler, and they fought in battle. But the Defiler -- he was furious and powerful, just enough that he fought King Thorin to his knees. He took my King's axe and held it high above his head --"

He paused, and the Elves around them leaned forward. Bilbo closed his eyes as he remembered: his heart beating in his ears, how sluggishly his legs moved, the look on Thorin's face as Azog growled his death omen. The heat of blood dripping over his hands.

"And then, Bilbo Baggins stabbed Azog the Defiler in the back. None of us saw him, none of us even noticed him, until we saw the shining blue blade sticking out of the Defiler's chest. A tiny Hobbit bested the greatest calamity of our age, the Defiler who had murdered so many of our kin," Bofur said, his gaze fixing on Bilbo, who opened his eyes to see every Elf staring at him. His fingers clenched around his glass, but he did not speak; did not think he could have if he tried.

"The Defiler turned and raised our King's axe again, and Bilbo Baggins was surely doomed -- but for our King, Thorin Oakenshield, who rose again and took the Defiler's arm from him! Then King Thorin drove his sword, shining like blue fire, into Azog, and finally the Defiler took his last breath and died. So ended our War with the Orcs, and so we won, on the actions of our two heroes," Bofur finished, satisfied and proud as he watched Bilbo, and he turned as the Hobbit boys and the Elves behind them came forward with questions.

Bilbo said nothing, his gaze dropping to the ground. He was no hero as Bofur thought, as his cousins believed. He was just a Hobbit, and he had murdered someone -- twice, now, if he counted the Orc who had tried to take Drogo. Not to mention all of the suicides he had assisted in Azog's halls --

But that was another lifetime. He was safe now, with his family and friends, and he felt no regret for spilling Azog's blood or killing that Orc. He only wished that he had never been in that situation; never been forced to kill or be killed.

He felt movement at his side and looked up, finding Gandalf beside him. Gandalf gave him an encouraging smile and held out a hand, and Bilbo helped himself up, turning to see Elrond and Glorfindel watching him. Elrond stood from his chair and approached them, Glorfindel following silently, and belatedly Bilbo remembered the mysterious Elf who had disappeared. He eyed Glorfindel for a short moment before focusing on Elrond.

"It seems we have much to speak of, Master Baggins. Would you care to join me in my study?" Elrond asked.

Bilbo stared up at this great Elf Lord, so much taller and older than him, with slate gray eyes that pierced him like an arrow. He imagined all of the things Elrond might say, about his actions with the Orcs, about Azog, about the Shire, about the Hobbits -- and then he sucked in a breath and nodded, relaxing a bit when Gandalf laid a hand on his shoulder. "At your leisure, Lord Elrond," he said quietly, and he allowed Gandalf to lead him away, leaving the lively party of Elves, Hobbits, and one Dwarf behind.

~

An hour later found Bilbo sitting in a very tall chair next to Gandalf, his hands clasped over the sheath of his sword, watching as Elrond and Glorfindel processed all that he had said.

He had told them nearly everything. From Azog's invasion to the Dwarves' final march, and even beyond, to returning home to a Shire in ruins. From Elrond's and Glorfindel's expressions, paling and darkening at different points in the story, Bilbo guessed that they had no idea how far the Hobbits had fallen. He had not spoken much of what had happened during his years with Azog, only explained that he had been Azog's personal slave, and that alone had made Elrond's expression freeze with knowledge that Bilbo dared not consider.

"Such a long story you have lived, and in so few years," Elrond murmured. "Your home lost... and now you seek to find a new one through the very mountains that tore your people apart. You are a very brave person, Master Baggins."

Bilbo's gaze dropped to the sword in his lap, which Gandalf had requested that he bring to show Elrond and Glorfindel. "I'm really not," he said quietly, and Gandalf sighed beside him.

"But you are, my boy. Never doubt that," Gandalf insisted. Bilbo had nothing to say to him; he was not brave, only determined to protect the people he loved. It was not the same.

"This is your sword?" Glorfindel questioned, and Bilbo's hands tightened around the sheath, before he stood and went to lay the sword on Elrond's desk. Glorfindel took the sword and examined it carefully, making a thoughtful noise. "This was made in Gondolin," he said after a moment.

"I thought so!" agreed Gandalf, smiling into his beard. "All three of the blades must have been made in the First Age."

Glorfindel and Elrond both shot Gandalf a look. "Three?" Elrond queried, taking the blade from Glorfindel and turning it over in his hands. Whenever Bilbo held the weapon, it looked like a proper sword, made for his height and size, but in the hands of an Elf, a being so tall that Bilbo could stand on Rory's shoulders and still not look him in the eye, it looked more like a dagger.

"Why, yes," Gandalf rumbled, and he stood to reveal the sword still hanging at his side, the long thin blade that he had taken from Azog's hoard, that matched the great curved weapon that Thorin had wielded against Azog. "Bilbo said that he found his blade, this sword, and another all together. Where did you say they came from, my boy?" he asked Bilbo, who shrugged a little.

"They came from some Trolls," Bilbo responded quietly. "About four years ago, two of Azog's commanders captured three Trolls somewhere, and whatever was in the Trolls' hoard became part of the clan's treasure hold. I haven't a clue where the Trolls got them, though."

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably when Elrond and Glorfindel both stood to take Gandalf's sword, laying it across the table alongside Bilbo's small blade. Glorfindel muttered something, and Elrond's gaze narrowed with recognition.

"This is Glamdring, the Foe Hammer, the sword that the King of Gondolin once wore," Elrond said after a moment, and Gandalf made a pleased sound. "And your dagger, Master Baggins, is of the same make. They would have been crafted at the same time... and you said there was a third?" he asked, and Bilbo nodded. "What did it look like?"

After a moment Bilbo stepped forward and looked over Elrond's desk. "Do you have some paper?" he requested, and Elrond offered him a large fountain pen and a stack of paper. Bilbo began sketching Thorin's sword from memory, slowly at first, before the strokes of ink became surer. After he was finished, he passed the paper to Elrond. "That's it. Thorin took it with him into battle. He used it against Azog," Bilbo said, his voice dropping to a whisper on his former master's name.

Upon seeing the picture, Glorfindel let out a soft exclamation. "Ecthelion's blade, surely -- named Orcrist for its great deeds. No wonder the Dwarf spoke of 'blue fire.' But why would such famous swords be in a Troll hoard?" He sounded angry, and Bilbo eyed him warily, but Glorfindel only scowled down at the two weapons.

"We may never know," Elrond reasoned, and Glorfindel's glare subsided slowly. "It is fortunate, at least, that they have all come into good masters." His gray eyes fixed on Bilbo, and he smiled. "Even the smallest."

Bilbo stared back at him, surprised, and a small smile appeared on his face as he relaxed. "Thank you, Lord Elrond," he murmured. Then he took his small sword back, as Gandalf picked up the now-named Glamdring and tied it to his belt again. Briefly Bilbo wondered if his own sword, Sting, might have an Elvish name, but then Elrond would have mentioned it. A dagger was all it was to the Elves, but it was so much more to Bilbo.

They all sat down again, and Bilbo swung his legs a bit as he set his little sword aside. He looked up to see Glorfindel watching him, and he hesitated at the look on the pale-haired Elf's face.

"You should write it down," Glorfindel said, and Bilbo could only blink at him.

"What?"

Everyone else stared at Glorfindel, who cleared his throat. "Your story," the Elf clarified. "All that you and the Dwarf told us -- you should write it into a book. It is a grand tale."

"What a splendid idea," Gandalf started, but Bilbo tuned him out, turning the idea over with interest. He had considered it before, months ago when he had returned to the Shire and caught sight of one of his old journals in Bag-End, but every time he had tried to write about his troubles, about the horrors he suffered, his pen faltered and the words never came.

But he could write about what happened with Thorin and his march. That was more important to history, he thought, and he could tell it like a story. Then perhaps his cousins would not pester him for so many details on what had happened to him during those years, or during the great battle with Thorin and Azog.

Bilbo realized Gandalf was chatting with Elrond about something, and he waited until the Wizard had finished his piece before speaking again. "I think I would like to do that," he offered, and Glorfindel nodded as Gandalf beamed, while Elrond looked interested.

"The librarian can help you find materials," Glorfindel said, an odd tone entering his voice, and beside him Elrond seemed to sigh.

"He is my chief counselor, Glorfindel, not my librarian. Must you always --"

"Yes, of course," Glorfindel waved Elrond off, and Gandalf seemed amused, but Bilbo could only stare at them blankly. "His name is Erestor, and he will help you."

Bilbo eyed the two Elves and Wizard suspiciously, but after a moment he only nodded. "Thank you." So there was a library. Bilbo would have to find it.

A moment later Elrond focused on Bilbo and clasped his hands together, leaning forward against his desk. "Master Baggins, I noticed something peculiar about your cousin when Glorfindel brought him into my care. For all that the wound was deep and rife with poison, his shoulder showed little sign of infection. Are you a healer as well?" Elrond asked, interest shining in his gray eyes, and Bilbo noticed Gandalf straightening and turning a narrowed gaze on him.

 _Damn._ He did not want to discuss this topic again, did not want to see the Elves grow suspicious and wary of him, but he did not want to lie, either. "Not really, no, Lord Elrond," Bilbo demurred, and he stiffened when Gandalf gave a huff.

"I am sure Lord Elrond would be interested in the Orc elixir, Bilbo," Gandalf said much too loudly for Bilbo's ease of mind, and he saw both Elves sit back in shock.

"Orc elixir?" Elrond said, sounding rather disturbed, and Glorfindel looked hardly better.

"Indeed, a tincture made by Orcs themselves," Gandalf explained, giving Bilbo another look.

With a wince, Bilbo gave Gandalf a rather unhappy look, but the Wizard only stared back at him. Bilbo felt his temper rise, but at the last minute he looked away and fixed a blank gaze on Elrond, his voice dropping as he explained Gandalf's remark. "I treated Drogo's shoulder with a healing tincture that I found on the Orc I killed. I lived with Orcs for seven years, so I know how they mend their wounds, and I knew that every Orc who leaves the clan halls takes some of the tincture with them. I still have it, if you would like to look at it. It takes care of infection and gut rot effectively," he said, his voice turning cold, and Gandalf huffed beside him.

"Really, Bilbo, there is no need to take that sort of tone --"

Bilbo stood up suddenly and scowled at Gandalf, leaning in to whisper to him. "Don't start with me, you old Wizard! What I do and do not tell other people is no business of yours. Don't you _dare_ pull that on me again," he said fiercely, and Gandalf leaned back, staring at him in surprise.

"I only wish to help you," Gandalf said, but Bilbo had had enough.

"Your help is patronizing and rude. I am not a child, and I would like _some_ privacy when it comes to my past, if you please!" Bilbo seethed quietly. "I was a _slave_ , and the things I saw -- I don't like to speak of it at all. What knowledge I have is mine to share, and don't you dare -- don't you ever try to force me to speak before I am comfortable again!"

Gandalf huffed again, but he did not speak again, except to say quietly, "I am sorry, Bilbo."

Bilbo accepted the apology stiffly, and he turned back to Elrond and Glorfindel with trepidation, flinching slightly at the wide-eyed looks on their faces. "I am terribly sorry, Lord Elrond," he whispered, fighting back the stinging in his eyes. He did not want the Elves, whom he had always looked up to as a child, to see him like this, but it was too late. "I should go," he started, but Elrond held up a hand, and Bilbo peeked up at his face long enough to see that the Elf lord's expression was kind.

"All is forgiven, Master Baggins. Please, be seated," Elrond entreated, and slowly Bilbo sat down again, fumbling for the handkerchief in his pocket and making himself tidy again. Elrond waited patiently until Bilbo had righted himself, then said, "I would be very interested to see the tincture you mentioned. You said it fights infection? Do you know the ingredients?"

Bilbo shook his head, gripping the edge of the large chair. "No, I never helped make it, but... I know some of what went in it. Rosehips, dandelion root... but there are other things, and I am not knowledgeable about medicine. Whatever they made it with, it fought infection and helped stomach illnesses... though it did little for the other problems we faced," Bilbo finished quietly, his shoulders sinking as he thought of his Great Aunt back in the Shire.

Elrond watched him curiously, while Glorfindel remained silent beside him. Gandalf watched Bilbo but said nothing, to Bilbo's relief. "What do you mean?" asked Elrond.

Bilbo looked up at him in surprise. "Well, all of us that lived in the Orc halls," he replied, "we have suffered other illnesses, that we have no idea how to treat. That place was full of dirt, fungus, mildew, and other things best left untouched. Many of us became ill. Many of us died from illness. Some of us still suffer, but I can only hope that going to the Vale and living in a place where we can grow food properly will help us heal. There's not much else to be done about it," he said feebly.

Yet Elrond leaned forward, grey eyes glittering with something Bilbo could not name. "These illnesses -- would you describe them for me?"

Bilbo watched him, surprised, but found it in him to reply. "Yes, ah, of course. The worst was the grey cough. Living in that place, with all that dust and spores in the air, it couldn't be helped. Even my Great Aunt, who left Moria months ago, still coughs, and now her handkerchiefs are stained grey." He hesitated, but Elrond motioned for him to continue, so Bilbo said, "We never ate well... only gruel, sometimes stew made with vegetables that the Orcs found for us. The water was clean, at least. Most of us are weak from it. And... some of us, myself included, have some trouble moving sometimes. My joints ache. My bones feel brittle... but then, we were starved. We still are, to some degree." Bilbo paused, not believing that he was saying these things, and he was very aware of Gandalf's worried silence beside him. "There are other things, smaller things, but they are more... remnants of the pain we suffered," Bilbo finished quietly.

Then he sat back and stared resolutely down at his lap, and he did not need to look up to know that Gandalf, Glorfindel, and Elrond were exchanging heavy glances over his curly head.

After a few moments of quiet, Elrond's deep voice intruded on his silence, and Bilbo looked up carefully. "You have given me much to consider, Master Baggins," Elrond said, and his gaze was not judgmental or suspicious, nor was Glorfindel's expression. "Thank you for telling me all that you have today, despite the tone of our discussion. While you are a guest of my home, you and your companions have my permission to explore as you wish. If you have need of anything, please do not hesitate to ask myself or Lindir." 

The smile Elrond gave him was kind, and Bilbo was warmed by his acceptance. He managed a small smile in return and hopped down from his chair, bowing slightly at the waist. "You are too generous, Lord Elrond," Bilbo said, and he took Elrond's nod as his sign to leave.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Bilbo heard voices rise in conversation, but he had no interest in trying to figure out what they were saying. He left the way they had come, walking silently through the hallways until he came to the gardens they had left, now emptied of Elves. The tables and cushions had been cleared away, but then Bilbo saw his cousins napping beneath the wisteria tree he had admired earlier, Bofur sitting nearby with his pipe. With a small smile, Bilbo approached them as quiet as he could, but even still, Rory managed to hear him.

His best friend opened one eye, took a single look at Bilbo, and held open his arm. Bilbo set his sword aside and went to his cousins gladly, curling up between Rory and Drogo and breathing in their familiar scents, warmed by the sun and flowers around them. Drogo was sleeping fitfully, and Otho was snoring, but Bilbo relaxed into Rory's side with a sigh, already feeling content.

So he dozed, and his sleep was peaceful for a time, the serene gardens doing much to ease his worn mind.

~

Far away, on the other side of the Misty Mountains, a tall Dwarf with blue eyes strode through a field of grasses and flowers that reached higher than his chest. He wore travel leathers that were worn at the elbows and dusty from the road, and he had both a great axe and an Elven sword strapped to his back. He had traveled for several weeks now, and he was tired of the road, tired of his guard who bickered behind his back and tried to trick him into sleeping properly. He did not look forward to the meeting he was about to have, but it would be better than the journey that would follow through Mirkwood.

His name was Thorin, and he was so very far from home.

The house he approached belonged to a great man who had aided his people for years now, but with whom he shared a rivalrous rapport. It was a generous hall, surrounded by tall oak trees that sheltered the generous garden full of huge bees that buzzed along gently. Everything here was great in size, for the owner of the house was a bear of a man -- as tall as three Dwarves standing on each other's shoulders.

Thorin sighed as the house came into view. Beorn was a suspicious man with little concern for the distances his friends had to travel, and he had even less care for Dwarves. Thorin, at least, had a steady friendship with Beorn that sometimes twisted around into a rivalry, but there were few Dwarves other than Thorin that Beorn would allow into his home. Thorin's guard had to remain at the edge of Beorn's land, and Thorin walked on alone, leaving his pony behind.

He turned his gaze to the valleys and gorges beyond the edge of the great field, imagining seeing the hills dotted with round doors and cozy gardens. He had seen the Shire before, long ago on a journey to visit the Western clans, and he wondered at a new home for the Hobbits. It was peaceful here, for Beorn protected these lands well. Thorin believed Beorn and the Hobbits would get along rather well.

As he entered Beorn's courtyard, Thorin noticed one of Beorn's dog-servants disappear into the house. A moment later, he heard a booming voice, seconds before a head of thick brown hair ducked out of the house.

"Thorin Oakenshield! What brings you to my house?" called Beorn, his feet thudding down the stairs as he walked to meet Thorin. "Weren't you off in the mines of Moria, cutting down Orcs?"

Then his mien turned serious, eyes darkening. "Did you fight Azog?"

Thorin smiled tightly and gave a short but formal bow. "Greetings to you and your house, Beorn. I have come with good tidings: we defeated the Orc armies, and have retaken Khazad-dûm! Azog the Defiler is dead by my hand."

"Well, that promises to be a magnificent story," Beorn murmured, stepping aside and sweeping his massive arm toward his house. "Come in and let us break fast! You who look so travel worn, who must have eaten poorly before coming here! Tell me about Azog's defeat."

Thorin acquiesced, and he followed Beorn into his home, handing his cloak to one of the servants, as had become familiar to him. In short order he was shown to Beorn's table where a meal was swiftly brought out, and Thorin sighed to see all of the cheeses and honey spreads, as was Beorn's wont. But Thorin did not deny that he had not eaten a home-cooked meal in far too long, and so he ate with gusto.

As promised, though, Thorin told Beorn his story, beginning with the battle that he and his army had faced after leaving Beorn four years ago. In the middle of his long march, Thorin had realized that one of the great gates leading out of Khazad-dûm opened into a valley near the Anduin River, and he had paused after a great battle and gone to Beorn's house to plead aid. Beorn had refused to risk his servants, and he had refused to venture into the mountains themselves. Instead, Beorn had promised to guard the gate from any escaping Orcs, as well as to send on supplies as they were needed.

So Thorin told him of the battles that had followed. He told Beorn of the last battle, of Azog's fall, and of the Hobbit he had rescued. Beorn had long despised Azog, just as much as Thorin had, but all Thorin knew was that Beorn's people had suffered at Azog's hands. He saw a sharp relief in the depths of Beorn's eyes as he described Azog's fall. Beorn nodded surely when Thorin confirmed the Thain's decision to come to the Vale.

"I will look after these Hobbits! You said they are small folk?" Beorn questioned, and Thorin nodded as he swirled the ale in his mug.

"Aye, smaller than Dwarves and lighter, not inclined to warfare or violence. They are gentlefolk, and there are many of them, for they have large families and take pride in agriculture and craft. The Hobbit who protected me in the battle, Bilbo -- Bilbo Baggins -- he will come here to meet you. I hope you will welcome him," Thorin said, an edge entering his voice.

Beorn chuckled, but his dark eyes turned hard. "Of course I will welcome him! Do you doubt the spread on my table, Dwarf? Do you doubt my hospitality?"

Thorin held back a sigh of annoyance, leaning back in his chair. "I doubt none of those things, Beorn. I only offer caution. These Hobbits were hurt, and badly, by the Orcs who enslaved them. They will be wary and afraid, and they are very small compared to you. Do not frighten them, and _do not_ offend Master Baggins. I think very highly of him," Thorin warned.

Beorn's smile disappeared completely, and he scowled at Thorin. " _Offend_ him? I will do no such thing! These Hobbits will find every comfort under my roof and on my lands! Soon they will have no need of Dwarves at all," he taunted, and Thorin grit his teeth.

"Master Baggins and his kin will _always_ be welcome in Erebor, and I daresay the Hobbits will receive quite a bit of aid from my kingdom. With the Gate so close to the Anduin River, it will be no surprise to anyone when trade prospers between our peoples."

"But they seek my aid first, Dwarf King, and they will not forget my kindness!"

It was all too easy for Thorin and Beorn to fall into the familiar rote of argument, having spent countless hours at the Eastern Councils following this exact pattern. Thorin almost felt relaxed as his spat with Beorn shifted from the subject of Hobbits to normal topics, such as who made better ale and who could defeat more Orcs in one swing.

"Ah! Ah! Begone with you, bothersome Dwarf! Take that basket by the door to your friends, and begone from my lands!" Beorn cried finally, and Thorin snorted, unsurprised that even in the midst of an argument, Beorn had thought to give him food for his guard. He rose and gave Beorn another bow, less stiff than before, and Beorn waved him off.

"I will see you at the next Council," Thorin said, and Beorn laughed.

"Ah, it just wasn't the same without you! Thranduil had no one to grimace at, and he was completely cowed by your fiercesome sister," chortled Beorn as he stood, and Thorin smirked as he thought of his sister, who was indeed terrifying when she put her mind to it.

"Do you have any messages for the Elvenking? I will see him next," Thorin said sourly, taking his cloak from one of the servants, and Beorn shook his head.

"Anything that must be said, will be said at the next Council. Safe travels, Thorin Oakenshield, and mind my bees when you leave," said Beorn, escorting Thorin to the edge of his courtyard.

Thorin walked ahead into the field, lifting his hand in a half-wave. His soldiers would enjoy the food Beorn had prepared, and at least the ride through Mirkwood would be free of spiders and other dark creatures. Beorn and Thranduil worked well together to keep their woods free from the evil that plagued the darker parts of the forest, and it made travel between Erebor, Thranduil's kingdom, and Beorn's house that much easier.

Once he dealt with Thranduil, Thorin would be just a few days from home, and then finally -- finally he would be with his family again. It was all that let him sleep peacefully -- the knowledge that soon he would see his brother, sister, and sister-sons once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my lovely betas, eaivalefay and tribumvirate (aka theaspetta)! And of course, thank YOU, my amazing readers, who continue to support this story! <3
> 
> So, my lovely readers, I have a question for you. I have several stories in the works right now, and I really want to finish them, but I can’t focus on any one in particular. So!
> 
> Which one would you like to read the most?
> 
> 1\. **Seven Years**. (Azog/Bilbo non-con) Pain-Bearer!verse. The story of Bilbo, slave to Azog, from the day he was taken from the Shire, to the day he was saved by Thorin Oakenshield.
> 
> 2\. **Brothers**. Pain-Bearer!verse. A story about sibling bonds and what it means to be family. Focuses primarily on the line of Durin, but may also include other families.
> 
> 3\. **In the Distant Blue**. (Níli/Dís) Pain-Bearer!verse. How Dís met her other half, Níli of the Blue Mountains, and how she managed to keep him despite every trick her brothers could think of to keep them apart.
> 
> 4\. **Across Time, My Heart to Yours**. (Thorin/Bilbo) When Thorin was very young, he loved. She was perfect, and she was his soulmate, in every sense of the word. Then came the day when Smaug attacked Erebor. On that day, she died, and the light of Thorin’s life blinked out, never to brighten his world again. Until the day he walked into the Shire and met a Hobbit who frowned at him with the eyes of the woman he had loved so fiercely and lost so long ago.
> 
> 5\. **Cursed**. (Thorin/Bilbo, Bilbo/other) A curse was cast on Bilbo Baggins, so that any person he may love will suffer the depth of that love. Thus Bilbo has sworn himself to bachelorhood, until he meets Thorin Oakenshield -- who is determined to break the curse.
> 
> 6\. **All That Glitters**. (Bofur/Bilbo, unrequited Thorin/Bilbo) About Thorin’s desperation to have what he cannot, and Bofur’s determination to keep what has been gifted to him.
> 
> 7\. **Pierced**. (Thorin/Bilbo) Smutty continuation of [Hidden Desires](http://archiveofourown.org/works/668495), focusing on Thorin’s piercings and tattoos, and Bilbo’s fascination with them.
> 
>  
> 
> **What do you think? What should I write?**


	26. Hidden within the pages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter contains non-explicit sexual content. <3
> 
>  **Word meanings:**  
>  _Ukhurkuzlat-izish_ \-- You have forsaken me
> 
> One of the words in this chapter will have no translation when you see it, but the meaning will be explained later in the chapter.

It was three days after the attack that Bilbo began to dream again.

_The voice of his master chases him through endless caves. " **Ukhurklat-izish** ," it echoes as he runs, clutching a sword that glows like fire but gives him no warmth. Hands drag him back into the darkness, and he whirls to confront blue, blue eyes._

_"You cannot escape this fate, pain-bearer," murmurs Thorin, and no, **no** , Bilbo will not listen --_

_He will tear his own ears off if it means never hearing Thorin call him that name --_

_nûl-lûpûrz, naeggyl, pain-bearer, pain-bearer, **pain-bearer**_

"No," Bilbo whimpered, but he did not wake.

_The caves change to the halls of Bag-End, long and winding and stinking of mold and dust. None of the doors open to Bilbo's frantic attempts, except his father's study -- and it is empty of everything except an old green waistcoat. It is too large for Bilbo but he clutches the old cloth anyway. A hint of floral perfume draws him out of the room, and he follows a gentle laugh that he has no hope of ever hearing again._

_"You cannot escape it," says Gandalf, and Bilbo finds the Wizard in his way, immovable as a mountain. He tries to push back but his feet slide, and he slips._

_"Bilbo," he hears, and he pulls his hands from Bofur's coat. Bofur only looks at him sadly, mottled irises dark with grief. "You cannot escape --"_

_"Not you too," breathes Bilbo, and he runs away before Bofur can stop him. He sees Rory huddled by the wall, clutching Primula who does not move, his gaze accusing as Bilbo flies past. Then Otho sneers at him, and Drogo hums a song of death, head of dark curls bowed over Bilbo's sword._

_"You cannot escape your fate," voices teem, all of his cousins and friends and everyone he has ever held dear --_

_" **No no no!** " whimpers Bilbo, shutting his eyes and screaming until his own voice is the only sound he hears. Then all is silent, and Bilbo floats in the loneliness._

_"Bilbo," he hears, and he looks up to find two women watching him. They are beautiful, so beautiful he aches. One pale in grey with large dark eyes, one dark in green with long brown curls. The lady in grey cries as the lady in green smiles._

_"Walk with us, my child," the dark lady says, and Bilbo takes her hand when it is offered. He trusts her. He **knows** her. She will never abandon him. She smiles at him, and he follows her into a great field of flowers. The darkness ebbs away, the colors he had not realized were muted bleeding back into the world, and Bilbo hides his face in soft green cloth when they stop to rest._

_She is warm and smells of earth, of tomato vines hot under the sun, of clover crowns woven into Hobbit curls, of sunshine and freshly cut grass. She smells of the Shire in the summer. She smells of **home**. He cannot help but love her, and he drifts as she hums. The melody is familiar, and Bilbo is happy to listen and think of nothing at all. Everything else fades for a time._

_A soft touch to his hair draws his face up, and the grey lady blinks solemnly at him._

_"My pain-bearer," she murmurs, and Bilbo only looks at her, forlorn in his calm. "Olórin means you no ill-will. He is guided by far-sight and cannot wholly see the weight you carry. Forgive him," she implores softly. "He will not forsake your friendship. He, too, bears what others cannot see."_

_"I don't like being angry," Bilbo agrees softy, not knowing who Olórin is but knowing that she is right. She watches him somberly, and he is reminded of Thorin's intense regard. He hears a chuckle as he imagines Thorin's blue, blue eyes._

_"It pleases me that you have embraced my husband's children, my child," the lady in green says, and Bilbo's cheeks turn pink. Then clouds begin to form above them, as her face twists with sadness. "What was done to my children..." The lady with her skin of earthen brown, warm and golden in the sun, bows her head in grief, shoulders shaking._

_The clouds thicken and it begins to rain, tears of the world, and Bilbo cannot help but react, crawling into the lady's lap as if she is his own mother. He hugs her. She holds him tightly for a long time. Her curls, long and thick like a Hobbit's, brush Bilbo's cheeks._

_"We will be happy again," Bilbo whispers, though he does not understand what he means. It is truth, though, even in this world where everything else seems to be a lie._

_"Yes," the lady in green murmurs, and he feels her smile into his hair. "I believe in you, my child," and Bilbo feels a kiss against his curls. His throat tightens with heat despite himself. "The Vale will be good for you. With my husband's children."_

_"Thorin's people," Bilbo whispers._

_"Just so."_

_They sit in the flowers for a time, until the sun is warm on his back and she is smiling again. He turns his head to watch the lady in grey, who has stayed silent, whose tears have not abated despite the warmth of the lady in green. She touches his chest with long, pale fingers._

_"Do not fear what will come, child of mercy," she whispers, her eyes large and dark and so very sad. "You are meant to bear pain, not to succumb to it. What may be is not fated, only inevitable."_

_He can only nod, trusting her as he does the lady in green, despite not understanding, despite the desire to run away and forget he ever heard the word 'pain-bearer.'_

_"Rest now, my child," the dark lady murmurs, bowing her head over him, and her brown curls smell of grass and sunshine and the Shire. He breathes in deeply, and she laughs, her voice falling like splashes of a waterfall around him. He does not want to leave her. She is **home**. "We will guard you against the darkness."_

_He rests._

When Bilbo woke the next morning, he remembered little but knew he had dreamt of home, and of his mother. The smell of sunshine and fresh-cut grass lingered on the edge of his thoughts for the rest of the day.

~

Bilbo did his best to avoid Gandalf for the majority of the morning. He was ashamed of losing his temper at his old friend, even if the Wizard deserved it. Still, there was an odd sense of forgiveness toward Gandalf, who had given him space after the meeting with Elrond. He was still a bit upset, but more at himself than Gandalf, for losing control in front of their hosts, and for not being able to stop his anger from erupting. Gandalf was only doing what he believed was best -- despite Bilbo disagreeing about what that was.

Still, Bilbo had a question that he was too shy to ask anybody else, for only the Elves would know otherwise and many of them had been giving him strange wide-eyed looks all morning, so he was determined not to speak to them if he could help it. He had no idea what had caused the change in their behavior, and he desperately hoped it had nothing to do with losing his temper in front of Elrond. No one seemed upset with him, though, so he did his best to ignore it.

Gandalf had disappeared by the time Bilbo built up the courage to find him, and briefly Bilbo considered actually asking an Elf. But Lindir had vanished just as quickly as Gandalf, and Bilbo would eat his vest before he approached Elrond so soon after yesterday's disastrous meeting. He had no idea whom else to ask, and so it was Gandalf that Bilbo sought after lunch; however, the Wizard was playing hard to get and refused to be found.

Bilbo grumbled as yet another hallway wielded no Wizard. He may have to ask an Elf after all, but then he had seen few of them all morning as well. He wanted Gandalf to help him find the Elf who had fixed his books, and he was curious about the company's plans. Now that Drogo had woken, how long would they stay in Rivendell?

Drogo was still healing, but at least he was eating and sleeping properly. Otho had rarely left Drogo alone since his cousin had woken, and all three of them made sure that Drogo got plenty of rest in between meals. Bilbo, Rory, and Otho had separated to sleep in separate rooms yesterday, though Bilbo was reasonably certain that Otho had snuck into Drogo's room to sleep anyway.

As such, Bilbo was sleeping alone for the first time in weeks, and it felt strange to the Hobbit who had shared his space with his cousins for so long. It was nice, though, and it was even nicer to have steady, home-cooked meals every day. Bofur still complained about the general lack of meat, but Bilbo quite enjoyed each dish and had begun to gain weight again. He hoped he would gain more, if only to fill the large coat which still sagged around his body.

Now, if only he could find that dratted Wizard.

Gandalf was particularly stubborn when he wanted to be, though, and so Bilbo searched fruitlessly for close to an hour before he gave up and sulked against a large bench. _See if I bother apologizing to him,_ Bilbo thought sullenly. Then he heard a low voice nearby, speaking in Sindarin.

_"You retrieved the book, did you not?"_

_"Yes, but Erestor was rather stubborn about it. His mind has been distracted as of late,"_ Bilbo heard, and he perked up.

Well, if he could not find Gandalf, at least he could speak to this Erestor, so his day would not be a total loss. He jumped off the bench and approached the voices, finding two Elves further down the hallway. _"Excuse me,"_ he said in halting Sindarin, and the two Elves turned around, their eyes widening at the sight of him. Bilbo blinked when he recognized them from yesterday. Grey eyes, and -- matching faces.

"Twins!" Bilbo squeaked, and the Elves' expressions relaxed with humor, though they still watched Bilbo closely.

 _"Indeed so, Master Hobbit,"_ one of the two said. _"I am Elrohir, and here stands my brother Elladan."_

 _"Bilbo Baggins, at your service,"_ replied Bilbo, surprised and delighted. _"Are you -- are you related to Lord Elrond?"_ Only the Master of Rivendell had eyes so grey.

 _"We are his sons,"_ Elrohir said warmly. _"How can we help you, Bilbo Baggins?"_

"Oh," Bilbo stuttered, his face warming as they stared at him. Most of the Elves did not look at him long, but both Elladan and Elrohir regarded him with intensity, making him shift and hide his hands in his pockets. _"My apologies, but I overheard you mention Erestor. I was hoping to find him,"_ he explained slowly, stuttering over a few words, but the twin Elves listened patiently.

 _"No need for apologies. Erestor is in the library, just down that hallway."_ Elrohir pointed, and Bilbo's heart leapt at the mention of the library. What luck he had! _"He was by the battle history section when we last spoke. His robes are grey as any other Elf's in that place, but you will know him. None of the attendants carry a scowl such as his,"_ Elrohir explained, a laugh in his voice. Beside him, Elladan's expression relaxed with a small smile.

 _"Thank you! I am sorry to interrupt,"_ Bilbo offered, but Elrohir waved a hand.

 _"We are glad to be of service, Master Baggins. Until next we meet,"_ the Elf said cheerfully, and Bilbo managed a smile.

 _"Until then, **balaphadro** ,"_ murmured Elladan beside him, and though Elrohir twitched at the word, neither of them lingered long enough for Bilbo to ask what the strange word meant. He stared after the twins as they walked away, trying to dissect the word for its meanings, but making no sense of what he could translate. Finally Bilbo gave it up as a mystery and followed the hallway Elrohir had pointed out, until he came to two large doors thrown open, with nothing but quiet inside.

Hesitantly, Bilbo approached the doors, and when he peeked past the ornately carved wood, all of the breath rushed out of him at the sight that met his eyes.

Books. Books on every wall, every surface, in leather-bound tomes, scrolls wrapped with ribbon, and paper sheaths of pages of knowledge he could only imagine. The room was immense and so very tall, each shelf wrought in honey-colored wood vaulting up to the ceiling. Iron-wrought staircases led to the next levels, where the shelves repeated, and every one of them was filled to the brim with books. Reading nooks settled in corners, balconies that twisted around from level to level with long couches and draping cloth, even a wall that was dedicated entirely to stacks of candles, paper, inkwells -- and Bilbo fell in love.

He began to roam, turning around to behold the library in full and laughing in delight. Never had he seen so many books in one place, not even in the library of the Old Took himself. How many books did those shelves hold? How much knowledge lay within those pages? At the top of every shelf, flowing script was written into shining metal and attached to the wood, and Bilbo realized that he had come to stand before the poetry section. Poetry! And Elrohir had mentioned battle history -- how many genres were there?

He approached a shelf and reached up to touch a book of red leather, wondering at the care put into this library. This Erestor, whom Glorfindel had implied to be master of this domain -- what love he must have for the written word. Bilbo could not wait to meet him, if only to express his admiration for this room. It would be wonderful to meet another book-lover.

Elves in long grey robes with blue trim walked quietly amongst the shelves, but Bilbo hardly noticed them, so enamored with the sight before him. Then Bilbo felt eyes on him, and he turned to see one of the Elves quickly look away from him. He glanced around, but all of the Elves seemed rather interested in their work, and none of them were scowling.

Well, if they were so busy, perhaps he could have a wander...

So Bilbo wandered, walking deeper into the library and relaxing as he inhaled the scents of paper and leather. As he explored, he eyed the many different plaques labeling the shelves, most he could not hope to understand, and determined that he needed to study Elvish better. The last few days had been a strain on his knowledge of Sindarin, which he had studied in his free time as a child, but he had rarely spoken it.

Then Bilbo's gaze landed on a plaque labeled, simply, _Naugrim_. Dwarves. A topic for which he definitely held a great deal of interest. He was pleased to see several titles in Westron in addition to the gentle Elvish script, as well as quite a few in the stiff cerths of Khuzdul. After a few moments of examining the titles, he pulled a few down and looked around, spotting a small table with chairs nearby a small balcony. _Perfect._

~

Forty minutes later, Bilbo was lost in a treatise on the value of yellow diamonds to the Woodland Realm, curled up on a cushioned chair and oblivious the attention he was receiving from the two grey-robed Elves who lingered on the edge of his area. Their gazes were intense as they watched him, and though the other Elves in the library all glanced at him from time to time, none were so interested as these two -- save another one, who stood in the shadows from a balcony three levels up, his normally stern mien relaxed with wonder.

One touched by the Valar could not be ignored, no matter how small he made himself seem.

The shadowed Elf disappeared, only to reemerge on the same level as Bilbo, hovering just out of sight as he watched the small Hobbit enjoy the fruits of his pride and joy. His dark gaze wandered to the pile of books Bilbo had chosen. Dwarves -- not a surprise, considering the book he had caught the Hobbit reading a few days ago, as well as his actions in the recent war within the Misty Mountains. He noticed two of the library attendants pretending to look busy nearby, and he hid a smile, knowing that they saw what he saw. They all noticed the light of the Valar in one who should not carry such a gift -- yet Bilbo Baggins shown as brightly as any Elf of the ages of old.

Such brightness -- and such darkness, too, but the Elf was less concerned with that than he was with the gentle fondness in the Hobbit's touch, as he stroked a finger down the page of his current read. When he had first seen the Hobbit with his worn and dirty book, he had been appalled, believing the Hobbit to be an offender of books everywhere -- but then he had seen the care with which the Hobbit had handled the book, and he had suspected the damage was not the fault of its owner. It was all too easy to exchange the book while the Hobbit was distracted with an unabridged copy, which gave the Elf two opportunities: to see what the Hobbit thought of historical accuracy, and so that he could understand what had damaged the poor book.

Fire, and time away from the shelter of a shelf -- so he had carefully cleaned the pages and laid it in new leather. It was a trifle, with the book as small as it was -- made with a Hobbit in mind, and lacking prominent details that would have filled more pages. He had wondered if the Hobbit had any other books in a similar state, but it was not his place to ask. Certain acquaintances of his would argue that it was not his place to fix the book, either, but he could not walk by a damaged book and ignore it.

Nor could he walk by this Hobbit and ignore him, either. He was far too interesting.

The two attendants noticed his presence then and hurried away to busy themselves. The Elf allowed them to escape his wrath, knowing they could not help their reactions. He turned his attention back to the Hobbit and studied his small collection of books, then made a decision and disappeared down another row of shelves.

When he returned, he was somewhat dismayed to find the Hobbit gone, but then he saw the small head of curly hair moving by the shelves that dealt with Thranduil's realm. He glanced at the open book on the table, running through the titles he kept in his library, then left the small stack of books he had gathered on the table and turned to leave.

"Oh!" he heard, and he turned to see Bilbo coming around the shelf with another stack of books. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was over here," the Hobbit murmured as his eyes rose to meet the Elf's -- and then he straightened in surprise, his eyes widening. "Ah! It's _you_!" he exclaimed, nearly dropping his books.

Erestor, chief counselor and unofficial librarian of the House of Elrond, sighed as he was caught by the Hobbit he had been avoiding for several days now. It was his own fault, truly, for being so drawn to Bilbo. It was so rare to meet someone who might care for books as he did -- and there were many reasons more to be fascinated by this tiny person.

"You! You!" Bilbo cried, setting his books down and throwing his hands up. "You're the one who took my book! You're the one who fixed my book! Oh, I've been searching everywhere for you!"

Erestor noticed that even with the hint of a scowl on his face and the quickness of his irritation, the Hobbit was very gentle with the books as he set them down. His hands were very small, the fingers much shorter than an Elf's in comparison to his palm, but they held the books gently. He noticed calluses from holding a pen regularly, as well as other small scars. Bilbo's nails were clean, though, for all that he must have had a hard life, with his writer's hands and scars of untold history. Here was a Hobbit who took care with his appearance.

"I have not been hiding, if that is your implication," he responded mildly, knowing full well that he had been doing his best to stay out of the Hobbit's way, and Bilbo's eyes narrowed.

"Have you not? Because I saw you yesterday, and as soon as I tried to look for you, you were gone!" Bilbo retorted.

"Am I not to walk about my own home with leisure?" Erestor replied.

"It isn't leisure when you are avoiding someone," Bilbo answered quickly, and then he turned a becoming pink color and ducked his head. Erestor stared; he was delighted by him.

"I meant no offense, master Hobbit," Erestor said after a moment. "You were otherwise engaged, and I had duties... and, I suppose, I did not wish to share words with you at that time, surrounded by too many curious gazes."

Bilbo eyed him warily, but after a moment he nodded and crossed his arms. "You know, you are the only Elf here who calls me a Hobbit. Everyone else uses the term Halfling, which is rather rude. We're not half of anything -- we are perfectly whole as we are!"

Erestor made a thoughtful noise, his thoughts shifting to the members of his race who were less than respectful of other races' histories. "I am fully aware of your identity as a Hobbit, and of the Hobbits' predeliction for names. Others are... not as considerate," he admitted, and Bilbo huffed a small sigh.

"Thank you," he said after a few seconds of staring at Erestor, nodding once more. "Now, if you didn't want to be found, why have you sought me now?" His gaze dropped briefly to the stack of books Erestor had left on the table, narrowing as his attention returned to Erestor. "I have the suspicion that you are the Elf I was told to seek," Bilbo said slowly.

Erestor's mouth twitched before he smoothed his expression. "Oh?" he inquired blandly, straightening with a glint in his eyes.

"Indeed so," said Bilbo, and then he hesitated, his cheeks growing pink as his fingers danced over the book in front of him. "Are you Erestor?"

Erestor waited a moment, watching the Hobbit's face grow pinker with uncertainty, and then gave a small bow. "I am Erestor, chief counselor of this house, and you are the guest of my Lord Elrond, Bilbo Baggins. Now we are well met, master Hobbit."

"Well met?" cried Bilbo, his small face darkening with the promise of a scowl. "I have been looking everywhere for you, ever since you took my book! Though I am very grateful for your gift and have no wish to offend you, I would very much like to know why you did what you did!"

Erestor glanced back, noticing a few of the attendants watching them, and a faint scowl sent them scurrying away. Then he walked to the edge of the balcony, and after a moment, Bilbo followed him, small features still twisted in a scowl. Erestor clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at Bilbo.

"I took your book and restored it, master Hobbit, because seeing a book in any state of disrepair offends my sensibilities, and having seen your care with the book, I chose to believe that like me, you would rather protect your books than treat them ill," he said quietly, and Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes, his cheeks turning pink again, so much that his large ears began to turn red.

"You came to this house because you needed healing, while you and your kin were on a journey away from the Shire that has always been your home. I can only imagine that the state of your book and other belongings is due to the same reason that you have left what is known and familiar behind. You do not seem the type of person to inflict destruction upon your belongings... and so I felt the need to inspect the damage and attempt to repair it. It was a small token, and I am glad you appreciate it."

"I -- that is --" the Hobbit stuttered, and Erestor waited patiently. Then Bilbo took a deep breath to steady himself and gave Erestor a small smile, the scowl in his brow fading. "I do appreciate what you did. And you are quite correct. During Shirefall, my home was..." Bilbo's expression darkened, but the light in his brow did not dim. "Part of it burned. My father's study, which held most of our books, was destroyed, and my room was torn apart... but some of my books survived. Everything that I own is either in my guest room, or strapped to the cart housed in Lord Elrond's stables. My books included, though they are in a sorry state," Bilbo finished quietly, a sad smile touching his face. 

Erestor's interest was immediately piqued. "You have other books with you? Similarly damaged?"

Bilbo's eyes widened. "Well -- yes, what I could fit into my bags. I couldn't leave them behind, could I?"

"Then you must bring them to me when you next visit the library. I will inspect them, and if they can be repaired, I will be glad to handle them," Erestor said decisively, and he enjoyed the way Bilbo turned pink again.

"I couldn't ask that of you! Perhaps if you taught me how you did it," Bilbo tried, but Erestor shook his head.

"I must insist, Mister Baggins. If you would like to assist, then perhaps we could repair them together, but I would like to assess them first. I have a long history of experience in restoring books of dubious states," Erestor said firmly. He watched as Bilbo floundered for a response, the Hobbit's embarrassment outweighing his need to be as of little trouble as possible.

Finally Bilbo sighed and nodded, giving Erestor a shy smile. "Only if you call me Bilbo," he offered, and unexpectedly, something in Erestor's chest warmed.

"If you would call me Erestor in return, it would be my pleasure," he said quietly. Bilbo's smile widened.

After a few moments of content silence, Bilbo spoke again, looking back into the grand library that was Erestor's favorite place. "You have a beautiful library," he said with admiration, wonder in his voice.

Erestor followed his gaze, a smile touching his mouth. "I thank you for the compliment, though it is Lord Elrond's library, first and foremost. I merely keep it for him."

Bilbo's mouth twisted with a faintly ironic smile, catching Erestor's interest. "I suppose that is why Glorfindel called you the librarian," he said. Erestor's expression smoothed, a faint curl of irritation rising in his thoughts, but he ignored the name and nodded.

"Some might refer to me as such, but my title is chief counselor. It just so happens that I enjoy books of all sorts, and my Lord Elrond has a similar devotion to knowledge. He does not mind my adherence to historical accuracy, either," Erestor explained, and Bilbo looked up at him curiously.

"You don't hate Dwarves nearly as much as the others, do you?"

Erestor stiffened, and Bilbo's mouth twitched into another smile, as if he understood something intimate about Erestor. "I simply wish to be true to history as it happened, not only history as my people see it. Personal views are irrelevant."

"A mark of a good librarian," Bilbo said seriously, and when Erestor looked down at him, he saw a twinkle in the Hobbit's eyes. "My mother would have enjoyed it here. Your sorting system alone would have entertained her for hours," Bilbo sighed, a faraway look entering his gaze.

Erestor watched him, but Bilbo said nothing more on that subject, instead walking back to his table to pick up the book he was reading. "I also am interested in your references. Did you write these books? Is that why I could easily find them?" Bilbo asked.

"I did write a majority of the books in these rooms. With the library already sorted, it was a simple task to mark further reading in the books I edited and wrote. As for the ease of access, well, not every person who enters these rooms finds my sorting system _easy_ ," Erestor said after a moment. He watched Bilbo's fingers stroke the inked lines on the page. The look of fascination softened the worn edges of the Hobbit's expression, made him look younger -- and how this Hobbit who could only be a few years into his adulthood could look _aged_ , Erestor did not understand.

"It's lovely," Bilbo said quietly, and Erestor gave him a small smile. "I found your sorting system rather sensible. Perhaps our minds share some likeness in thought."

"Thank you. Are you enjoying your research, then?" Erestor asked, glancing at the book again, and Bilbo nodded, his mien brightening again.

"Oh, yes! You have so many books that the Old Took, my grandfather, could never even imagine! Like that copy you left with me, about the Battle of Dagorlad? That is part of a series, is it not? What a collection you have here! At first I meant to look up information about Thorin's ancestor Durin IV, and then I wondered about Oropher and his activities, and then I found a treatise on the export of yellow diamonds to Mirkwood, and -- there is so much to read! It's wonderful," Bilbo sighed, and Erestor had to hide a smile again. His suspicion was correct; Bilbo Baggins loved books just as he did.

"You are welcome to read anything you like in these rooms," Erestor said, and Bilbo stilled suddenly, his eyes going very wide. "I would only ask that you return the books to where you found them, and that you write down any books you take back to your rooms in the ledger by the door. I would also be happy to answer any questions about your research, if you like," Erestor offered.

For a few moments, Bilbo did nothing but stare at him, to the point that Erestor could not stop himself from twitching. Then Bilbo ducked his head, and Erestor was faintly alarmed to see the Hobbit's small expression twisting as if with tears. "Are you --?"

"I'm fine," Bilbo said quickly, but his voice trembled slightly, and Erestor had to look away, to give Bilbo some space. Then Bilbo cleared his throat and said more clearly, "I very much appreciate this, Erestor. Thank you."

Erestor looked back at Bilbo, who smiled up at him with the light of the Valar on his brow and such strength in his gaze, for all that he carried scars of untold history and had lost half his life to the destruction of Orcs. Erestor felt his old heart melt a little to see that smile, and he returned it with a small one of his own. Here was a person with whom he could get along quite well, and he looked forward to Bilbo's reactions to his library, to the books on his table, and to the conversations they would surely have in the future.

"It is my pleasure, Bilbo."

~

A while later, Erestor sat on another balcony, writing in a half-empty book, though his pen strokes were languid and his dark gaze distracted. He had left Bilbo to enjoy his books, to many more expressions of gratitude and soft smiles, which pleased Erestor for reasons he could not explain. What was it about this Hobbit that attracted him so?

He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice he had company until broad hands slid over his shoulders and squeezed, and he startled and leaned back into warmth. "Elrond's guest is downstairs," was murmured into his ear in his native tongue, and Erestor twitched.

"I'm aware," he said stiffly in the same language, pulling away from his captor and closing his book, turning around to frown at his visitor.

Glorfindel smiled lazily at him, and Erestor debated his mood concerning the other Elf. Lately they had been on the edge of flirtation, but the very idea of Glorfindel turning his wicked wit on tiny Bilbo rankled Erestor.

"You haven't teased him, have you?" he asked suspiciously, and Glorfindel raised his eyebrows in question.

"When would I have had the chance? Why, does that worry you, my dear librarian?" Glorfindel asked, his sharp gaze catching Erestor's eyes, and the dark-haired Elf gave a short sigh.

"It is not a worry. I like him, Glorfindel, and if you offend him, I will have words with you," he said, turning back to his book with a small huff. After a moment of pointed silence, he felt the other end of the couch dip with Glorfindel's weight, and he looked up to see pale eyes watching him intently.

"What?" Erestor said irritably.

"Nothing," said Glorfindel mildly, still watching him closely. "You like this Halfling."

" _Hobbit_ ," Erestor snapped, not for the first time, and Glorfindel held up a hand.

"Hobbit, then. You like him?"

"He enjoys books as I do," Erestor explained shortly, and Glorfindel's mien softened with a smile.

"Ahhh, so that is why," the taller Elf said to himself. "Do not worry, my dear, for I will not tease him. Elrond likes him as well."

That bit of information made Erestor relax, and he watched Glorfindel with a half-lidded gaze. Glorfindel met his look with a sharp smile. "It would please me if you promised such," Erestor said quietly, and Glorfindel gave an elegant shrug.

"I will not bother the Hobbit. Did you know -- he has only been here a few days, and already he has two nicknames?"

Erestor shot him a look, his lips twitching downward. _"Naeggyl,"_ he murmured, thinking of the scars on Bilbo's hands and the way he held himself tightly.

Glorfindel nodded, shining hair falling over his shoulder. "Yes, and another: _balaphadro_. Curious, don't you think? For one such as he, to shoulder so much torment," Glorfindel said quietly, and Erestor shot him a bewildered look.

"One who follows the path of the Valar," he whispered, then nodded. If others saw what he saw, that brightness that shone in a being that would otherwise never know such light, then he agreed with the name. Not that he would ever say it to Bilbo's face -- he was happy with the honor of using Bilbo's given name. "How many have noticed?"

Glorfindel made a small noise, reclining back on his end of the couch and looking up at the sky. "Many have noticed, but the younger ones less so. Elrond was bewildered by the change in your Hobbit, as he did not shine so brightly yesterday. Perhaps he had a telling dream?" Glorfindel wondered, and Erestor followed his gaze to the clouds. They would likely never know what caused such light in Bilbo, and there was no reason to ask him, as the Hobbit would not understand.

"What do you know of his pain?" Erestor asked after a moment, and Glorfindel met his gaze, his usual jeer fading.

"He told his story to Elrond, and I was there to hear it. I will not repeat his tale, though I suggested that he write it down, and that he seek you for advice," Glorfindel said quietly, and Erestor was pleased that Glorfindel had set aside their usual differences for the Hobbit he wished to help.

"That is why you will not tease him, hm?" Erestor said slyly, and he enjoyed the way Glorfindel glared at him in response.

~

Later, when Bilbo had finished reading about Oropher's death and the strained relations between Mirkwood and Erebor, he took care to tidy his area and return his oddly large pile of books to their proper places -- only to be surprised when a grey-robed attendant appeared from nowhere and took the books from him, murmuring that she would take care of it. Bilbo could only thank her in bewilderment, watching as she glided serenely away.

Elves were an odd sort, but he liked them anyway, for the most part. Erestor especially, and wasn't it a joy to have met a fellow book-lover? Bilbo could tell that he and Erestor would get along very well, and he hoped that he would be able to sneak away to the library often.

He glanced out to the sky and noticed that it was only mid-afternoon, and he smiled to himself. A little more time for some reading, then. That poetry section he had seen earlier sounded promising, so Bilbo went off to search through the shelves, finally pulling a small tome that simply said _Stone_. He would be sure not to tell Bofur how drawn he was to the topic of Dwarves; it wouldn't do to inflate his friend's pride.

When he returned to his small niche, he was surprised to find a tray next to the few books he had decided to keep to read later, steam rising from the spout of a delicate pot. There was a bowl of fruit and a tray of sandwiches, perhaps too many for an Elf but a perfectly reasonable amount for a Hobbit. Bilbo looked around in confusion, but he saw none of the library attendants nearby. He wondered if it was Erestor, or perhaps the Elf from before. He touched the handle of the pot -- carved leaves painted gold -- and leaned down to breathe in the aroma.

Elvish tea -- how long had he wanted to taste such a treat?

He would leave a note when he left, to thank whomever gifted him this treat.

With that thought he settled into his comfortable chair again, which was quite large but suited him well with its plush cushions, and began to read Dwarven poetry.

> Three dwarves came 'round my house today  
>  And each of them held a different tool.  
>  The first, his hammer heavy and strong,  
>  Pounded at my loom hard and long.  
>  The second brought a chisel fine;  
>  He stroked and prodded my loom to shine.  
>  The third, he hefted a massive staff;  
>  Then he rutted me so well I laughed.  
>  Three dwarves came 'round my house today  
>  And each of them fixed my broken loom.

Bilbo stared down at the page before him, stunned at what he had just read. Had he really chosen a book of _romantic poetry_? He flipped further into the book, his face slowly heating up as he found more lines than he could believe about Dwarvish romance -- the _pounding hammer_? Really? He breathed in carefully and tried not to laugh, while aware that his cheeks were rather hot.

> The king's known well for his skill,  
>  In pick and sword and his quill,  
>  And in the forge he is renowned  
>  For inspiration herself he crowned.  
>  But night comes on and his wife he beds,  
>  As she hems and haws and puts off with dread,  
>  Til at last she all but stammers,  
>  "Tonight _you_ be the anvil and _I'll_ be the hammer."

A low noise from one of the balconies above him dragged him out of the book, and Bilbo realized that he was reading something very intimate in a rather public place. Quickly he closed the book and pushed it away, cheeks flaming. Then he felt affronted by his own reaction; surely at his age it was fine to read something of that nature? Even if it had to do with sex, it was not as if he was unaware of it, all things considered. Not to mention his experience in his youth! 

Then his thoughts stuttered, and he stared at the book in shock. Had he really just thought about sex? And unrelated to _him_? Bilbo was distracted enough that he sat still for quite some time, noticing nothing around him. At some point he poured himself a cup of tea and sipped the aromatic drink, still warm but no longer steaming. Then he busied himself with the sandwiches after his stomach growled, all the while wondering what his life might have been like if Orcs had never dragged him into Azog's caves.

Eight years ago, he had shared a kiss with Holman Greenhand, his neighbor and the son of his parents' gardener. A kiss that had made his heart flutter with hope, moreso than secret kisses with Daisy Bunce or a spur-of-the-moment dance with Tomas Grubb. He had flirted with Holman for ages before that, often joining him in the garden to tend the herbs and letting their hands brush together often, or teasing him about the dirt on his nose and making motions to wipe it off himself. If Shirefall had not happened -- would he and Holman be together? Would they settle into comfortable bachelorhood as neighbors, one family in everything but in name?

He had met Holman again after his return to the Shire, but Holman had changed. He had not been a slave, but he had lost family to Shirefall, had lost Bilbo, and there was no hope of ever rekindling the sweet romance they had shared. There was no possibility of considering it, not with the way Bilbo had felt after spending years as Azog's pet. Still he believed he could not be in a relationship proper... but perhaps it would be alright to acknowledge those old feelings again. If the heat in his cheeks and the uncomfortable twinge in his lower stomach were any indication, Bilbo was perfectly capable of _feeling_ it.

He was simply unsure if he could ever _want_ it.

When Bilbo finished the sandwiches and tea, he pulled the bowl of fruit closer and picked up the book of poetry again. He read for some time, slowly eating the fruit off his fingers and listening carefully for any steps nearing his little corner. But no one came back to visit him, and he only heard soft sounds on the wind; nothing that would indicate anyone was nearby.

> **Heart of Stone**  
>  The lads chipped away in Khazad-dum  
>  And chipped away her heart of stone,  
>  For lover's touch their lady wept  
>  And lover's touch all denied. 
> 
> A lover's touch their lady cried,  
>  Until one miner began anew  
>  Chipped away her heart of stone  
>  And plundered her depths of gold. 
> 
> Once more her miner began anew,  
>  A lass fairer than mithril's shine.  
>  She plundered into depths of gold  
>  And won heart sweet of her lady's stone. 
> 
> The lads chipped away in Khazad-dûm,  
>  Dreamed of caverns deep none would know,  
>  For the lass fairer than mithril's shine  
>  Delved all her days in her lady's time. 

At one point, Bilbo had to hide his face at how detailed some of these poems were. Yet some of them made him ache in a way he did not dare to examine, and they spoke of love that Bilbo had only dreamed of in his youth. Some of them even told of love between those of the same gender, and those poems he noted for later, wanting to dissect them for their symbolism and implications.

> **His Other Half  
> ** He set his heart to stone and waited 'neath silvered leaves  
>  For the one to break the stone to clay.  
>  His one, his only, his perfect match --  
>  And so he waited and wandered, waited and roamed  
>  Then met his match in the shadows of day.  
>  They danced, they sang, they rejoiced all night  
>  Till dawn broke 'part their sweet embrace;  
>  Lips to lips, beards entwined,  
>  Shaft to shaft, they loved each other evermore.  
>  Two halfs now whole, unbroken 'neath silvered leaves.

When Bilbo came out of his reverie, he noticed that the sun was beginning to set. The boys must be wondering where he was, and it would be dinner soon. After a moment of consideration, he added the book of poetry to his pile. Then he fetched some paper and a pen, and he wrote a small note beside the emptied tray, and after that, he added the list of books he was borrowing to the ledger Erestor had mentioned. 

Then he picked up his books and left the library, holding the books close to his chest and trying not to feel like an illicit teenager. He walked until he found himself in their guest hall, and he paused at Drogo's doorway and listened. He heard laughter and cheerful voices, and he smiled to himself, glad that his cousins were enjoying themselves.

"There you are!" came a voice that was much too close for Bilbo's nerves, and he jumped and turned to find Bofur behind him. At the sight of his Dwarven friend, he was immediately reminded of the book hidden in his stack, and he blushed immediately.

"B-Bofur! Um, good evening," he stammered, and Bofur gave him an odd look.

"Alright there, Bilbo?" the Dwarf asked, and Bilbo nodded quickly.

"Oh, yes, fine," he reassured his friend, clearing his throat and willing his blush away. "I'm sorry for being gone so long -- I found the library, and it was... distracting."

Bofur's expression cleared with understanding; he had long known about Bilbo's love for books. "I understand, though I'm sure no Elf library can compare to Erebor's. Say, did you meet Gandalf? He was here earlier."

Bilbo shook his head. "I haven't seen him all day, actually. Did he say something?"

Bofur made a disgruntled noise. "Well, I asked him when we were going to leave, and he said he didn't know! Said he had important things to discuss with the Elf Lord, and that with Drogo healing it might be a while yet. So, since our Wizard is being recalcitrant and difficult, I figure that you, me, and the boys can spend the time working on that training I promised all of you," Bofur said with a nod, and Bilbo could only stare at him.

"Training? _Oh_ , with my axe and sword, and fighting? But Bofur," he hesitated, and Bofur gave him a sidelong look that was far too understanding for Bilbo's comfort.

"I know, you think of them as just boys, but every Dwarf learns to fight at a young age, boy or girl, and in this world -- your cousins need to know as much as possible. I'll just teach them the basics, Bilbo, don't worry," he said, keeping his voice low, and Bilbo remembered that they were standing just outside Drogo's room.

Bilbo glanced into the room, seeing Drogo sitting with his back to the door, entertaining Otho and Rory with a story. He thought of that horrifying moment when that Orc grabbed his cousin, and he shivered, forgetting about the books tucked against his chest and his lovely afternoon. He could only see Drogo falling.

"Alright," he said finally, quietly, and Bofur reached up to clasp his shoulder. "But if it gets out of hand, you'll let me stop it, won't you?" Bilbo implored, and Bofur nodded.

"'Course, Bilbo, you know I'll put everyone's safety first. Now, how about we go find some dinner?" Bofur said, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder, his warmth steady and solid against Bilbo's side, and inexplicably, his face heated up again.

"Yes, dinner sounds good," he said quickly, ducking under Bofur's arm and going to his room to hide the books away. Now if he could only get through this meal without thinking about those poems!

~

_This was not a dream of his childhood. This was not a dream of moments long forgotten, stolen behind apple trees, under the shade of myrtle, in the back of his uncle's barn. This was not a dream of fumbling beneath the covers after his parents had gone to bed, gasping into his pillow as he tried to reach into that sensation again --_

_This was a dream of heat, of promises beneath kisses that ignited his skin, of hands that dragged fingertips over his sides and murmured love into his ear. Of weight in his stomach, burning through his hands as he grasped onto warm skin soft and unscarred, while a voice murmured into his ear --_

_**more** \--_

Bilbo stretched beneath the covers with a groan, coming awake as heat pulsed through him. He opened his eyes and stared dazedly up at the ceiling, wondering why he was awake. A bad dream, perhaps? He shifted against the covers, feeling far too warm. At least his cousins were in the other room; he did not want to wake them with his dreams.

He pushed the covers aside and sat up, and that was when Bilbo became aware of the change in his body, the heat pooled at his center, and he groaned as the cloth in his lap shifted. Confused, he looked down and stared, his mind suddenly very alert.

Oh. _Oh._

Bilbo immediately felt his face heat up, and he glanced around the room quickly, but there was no one to see his aroused state. Hesitantly he curled up against the pillows again, laying his hand on his thigh and staring into the darkness. A visage came into his mind -- _heat so powerful it burned his tongue_ \-- and he shuddered. When had he last felt like this? When had he last woken in such a state? Not in far too long.

Of course, he had woken many times in a somewhat similar state, ever since he returned to the Shire, but never like this. Never with heat searing in his veins. Only a natural reaction, that every male Hobbit faced in the morning. Not like this.

He had not felt like _this_ since he had pulled Holman Greenhand behind a shed and kissed him, just a week before Shirefall.

Would it be okay to...? He was a grown Hobbit after all. Nobody was watching. And he remembered his dream, and memories long before that, of what it felt like to touch himself like that. He thought of the poetry he had read before falling asleep, and his face flushed brightly, heat spreading through his entire body.

After another moment, and many more glances at the door, Bilbo slipped his hand into his trousers, and he shuddered. _Oh_ , how could he have forgotten this? Then for a time, he did not think of much at all.

Afterwards he lay still, staring up at the ceiling as he caught his breath. After _him_ \-- and in his state, Bilbo could not even think the name -- he had given up all hope of feeling like this ever again. Wonder and hope filled his chest, and he turned into his pillow to hide the laughter that bubbled from his throat. He was okay. He was _normal_.

Not that he could tell anyone about this, because Bagginses were proper no matter how long they had gone without a fumble in the sheets, but it made Bilbo very happy with himself.

He fell asleep with a smile, and his slumber was deep and easy until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to tribumvirate and eaivalefay for their amazing beta reading! And thank you to everyone who has stayed with me so far, despite the long weeks between chapters and my ridiculous flails on tumblr. <3
> 
> The Dwarf poetry featured in this chapter is written by both me and eaivalefay. I hope you enjoy it. ;D
> 
> Thank you for the amazing responses to my poll! A tally has yielded the winner: _Seven Years_! But not everyone is interested in that story, so you'll be happy to know that I'll also be working on _Pierced_ and _Across Time, My Heart to Yours_. All of the stories in the poll will be published in time, but those are the ones I will focus on right now.
> 
>  _Seven Years_ will be seven chapters long, and it will cover all of Bilbo's time with Azog until the start of _Pain-Bearer_. With the 'pairing' as it is, the story will have non-con and a hundred other heavy-hitting triggers, but these will likely not be explicit, and I will place plenty of warnings on the story. _Seven Years_ will also cover a lot of Orc culture and will focus a great deal on Bilbo's relationships with his family and the other slaves. Keep an eye out for the first chapter in the next few weeks!
> 
> By the way, the scene where Glorfindel and Erestor speak about Bilbo has a [continuation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/968907/chapters/1902620). You can also read additional Dwarven poetry [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/968907/chapters/1907744).
> 
> The first scene in this chapter has been gifted fanart! Please check out PassiveResistance's [We Will Be Happy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/787761/chapters/2136636)!


	27. On the darker side of history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, Bilbo met Elrohir and Elladan. I tweaked that scene so that Elrohir was the more talkative twin, and Elladan the less talkative twin. Those changes are reflected in this chapter as well. Also, for those wondering where Estel is -- he doesn't arrive in Rivendell until 2933, and the current year of _Pain-Bearer_ is 2931. So no Estel! :(
> 
>  **Word meanings:**  
>  _balaphadro_ \-- one who walks in the path of the Valar  
>  _ada_ \-- father

Twilight fell upon the valley, casting shadows across the pathways of Elrond's home. Elves with lanterns walked about, lighting lamps and brightening the darkened halls. On the northern side of Rivendell, there was a small garden surrounded by tall trees with high lanterns, but none were lit, as tonight the garden was nearly empty -- save for one figure who sat at the foot of a great tree. He was missing his characteristic pointed hat and staff, and his grey robes were, for once, open to show the white underneath. He was Gandalf, and he was brooding.

_Balaphadro._

The Wizard contemplated the young Hobbit whom he had brought to this place. He had watched Bilbo from a young age, interested in the child that had changed the wild and wandering Belladonna Took into a mother and wife. Such a sweet child -- and such a jaded adult, after such horrors at so young an age. His wish had been to heal Bilbo with Rivendell, with its serene halls and natural beauty, and already, after ten days with the Elves, he could see that Bilbo was greatly affected by Elrond's home.

Bilbo smiled more. He laughed more. He ate to fullness and enjoyed everything given to him, and there was no doubt that he spent more hours in the library than Gandalf cared to count. He slept better, which was a relief to Gandalf, who had worried over the dark circles under Bilbo's eyes for weeks now. Gandalf had seen him in the company of Erestor several times now, talking about whatever book sat between them, while brightening the stoic Elf's normally placid expression.

Bilbo was a little less shy after making friends with Erestor, and he responded to the wonder the other Elves showed, engaging in light conversation when before he could not meet the Elves' eyes. It was obvious that Bilbo was healing, despite the darkness in his gaze and the anger simmering beneath his calm expression. Gandalf had not forgotten Bilbo losing his temper in the meeting over a week ago. It worried him, more than anything else.

The other Hobbits, too, could be seen smiling with newfound joy, running about Rivendell with a fascination Gandalf only saw in the young these days, both in relief for their cousin's smile, and in their own healing. Bofur, in contrast to how he had behaved upon first arriving, had relaxed and taken to training the boys in defensive combat. A good idea, and at least it distracted the Dwarf, who attempted to bother Gandalf at least once a day about leaving Rivendell. Gandalf always felt exasperation at the racist hatred between Dwarves and Elves -- but who could blame either race, when the two had such history? At least Bofur was not as cold about it as Thorin, though the Wizard suspected that Bofur hid a great deal of his thoughts from the others, and especially from Gandalf himself.

Rorimac's eyes were no longer so haunted, no longer so dark with rage and emotions that he never expressed in front of Gandalf, but which the Wizard knew he possessed anyway. The young Brandybuck had taken to chatting with the various Elves of Rivendell when he was not with his cousins or sneaking into the kitchens. The lessons with Bofur had done well to take the edge off his hard anger, and the boy showed delight every time Bilbo laughed or spoke out during a meal. 

Drogo, poor Drogo whose wound was all but a memory, gave Gandalf a moment's worry. Drogo, who had been so furious after Shirefall, who had guarded his cousins' vulnerable moments with fierceness, who was the first person to go to any of his cousins' sides after one woke from a nightmare, was now solemn when he was not cheered by his cousins. Gandalf suspected that the Baggins boy felt guilty for his injury and helpless at his own weakness, especially since Bofur would not yet allow him to take part in his more rigorous lessons. Bilbo had once expressed dismay to him over the anger in Drogo and Otho, who had lost their entire families to Shirefall. Gandalf hoped that it was only the anger of youth, and that it would fade as Drogo grew older.

Otho, the youngest, who had walked about with such scowls and worried expressions, who had been a truly awful boy in his youth, was calmer in the halls of Rivendell, the worry for his cousins fading to curiosity. He had even showed very un-Baggins-like tendencies, such as following Bilbo into the library, which delighted the older Hobbit to no end. Late in the evenings, Gandalf could hear Otho and Drogo reading to each other from the books Otho would borrow from the library, in some truly alarming subjects: battle tactics, defensive techniques, and worst of all, Orc weaknesses and habits. He did not stop the two young Hobbits, though, as the knowledge would be good preparation for them, particularly on a journey so dangerous.

But still, Gandalf brooded, concerned for the young Hobbit at the center of the company. He had not forgotten Nienna's request. He fretted and contemplated and worried, always searching for a way to draw his young friend out of his fate -- while pushing him ever toward that inevitable future.

_Touched by the Valar._

He had seen so many succumb to darkness, to fear, to the evil that tainted the land, yet Hobbits amazed him time and again with their resilience and strength. Bilbo Baggins was no different -- he was just like his mother, really. Stubborn and fearless, and still afraid for all those he held dear.

_Pain-bearer._

Gandalf feared for him, and perhaps even feared him a little bit. Why had Nienna chosen Bilbo Baggins? What gifts lay beneath that dark gaze, that judged the Wizard for his silence, for his manipulations which were only for the good of others, that seemed to know when Gandalf had done nothing to give himself away? What would Bilbo become in the future? How would those dark years change him? Gandalf could not see a future that was not stark with despair.

"What draws your gaze eastward, Mithrandir?" called a familiar voice in Sindarin, and Gandalf turned to see Elrond approaching. He smiled at his old friend and patted the spot beside him.

"Merely concerns, old friend." For a moment, Gandalf was silent, gathering thoughts between bushy brows, and Elrond took the proffered seat, waiting patiently for the Wizard to speak.

"We must reconvene the Council," Gandalf said slowly, "but not as it was. The Lady Galadriel, of course --"

"But not Saruman," Elrond finished, and Gandalf made a perturbed noise. "So you have told me. This disturbs me, Gandalf, for I do not relish the idea of excluding one who has stood at our side for ages past. Yet... I cannot see into Saruman's realm. I cannot see his paths. If what you saw was true..."

Gandalf straightened with a faint scowl, old knowledge darkening his gaze. Shifting made the white of his robes flash in the dim light. "There is no denying what was told to me by my Lord and Lady. I saw such terrible catastrophes, Elrond, and all of it from the rise of evil... from Saruman's betrayal, yes, and from darkness that grows in the corners of the world. What happened to the Hobbits of the Shire was only the beginning. If we do not gather our allies and take out the darkness before it spreads, then I fear all will be lost."

Elrond frowned into the dark serenity of the valley, grey eyes laden with deep thoughts. "Then we will do what we must," he said slowly. "What of Saruman?"

"He must be stopped," Gandalf intoned. "After I deliver Bilbo and his family to the Vale, I will investigate Dol Guldur once more, and then I will go to Isengard myself. Saruman is my kin, and... it is my duty to handle him." He could not hide the sadness in his voice, and Elrond reached up to touch his shoulder.

"If you have need of me, I will come, Mithrandir," his friend said quietly, and they shared a small smile.

They sat together for a time, listening to the muted sounds of the dinner hall on the other side of the house. Music drifted to them on the wind, until at last Elrond stood and offered Gandalf his hand. Gandalf helped himself up, pulling his grey robes shut again, and together they walked back into the house.

"You are planning to leave soon, aren't you?" Elrond mused, and Gandalf huffed a small breath.

"In a few days' time, yes. I hope we have not been a bother," he said, and Elrond shook his head.

"Mister Baggins and his family have been a delight, and even that curious Dwarf has not been a terror as Lindir worried. You always collect such interesting company, Mithrandir," Elrond murmured, his solemn mien softening with a smile. "Mister Baggins in particular..."

"What do you think of him?" Gandalf asked lightly.

Elrond was silent for a time, and the two stopped at the edge of a long hallway, looking ahead together to the dining hall, which was lively with music and chatter. Beyond the open doors, Gandalf could see Bilbo laughing with Bofur and Rorimac. "I have not met many Hobbits in my life, but what I know of them... it is just as I see in that room. They have a love of life that would surprise even some of my kin who have watched this world from its youth. Bilbo Baggins and his kin suffered such hardship, and still they laugh, still they smile with joy and hope. I have never known an Elf, who was a victim of torment at the hands of Orcs, to heal so swiftly or so completely. It is a wonder to behold them, even if it leaves me with a great sadness, that they suffered as my Celebrían did. I admire your young friend, Mithrandir, and I hope to call him friend myself, one day."

A slow smile touched Gandalf's face, and his eyes twinkled as he looked over at Elrond. "You should tell him that. I think he quite admires you as well," he said with a teasing lilt. Elrond shot him a look, shaking his head with a small smile.

"I have noticed his attention. If he should seek me out before you leave, then I will not deny him," Elrond promised. A moment passed, and Elrond's shining features twisted slightly in worry. "Mithrandir... did you ever find Iarwain Ben-adar? I have heard nothing of him, these years past."

Gandalf slowly shook his head, his expression saddening again. "No, I saw nothing of him in the Old Forest, which had taken such damage during the Orcs' attack. But he is wise, and I think nothing has felled him. I suspect he has hidden himself away, perhaps to nurture the earth there."

"Hm. When I send aid to the Shire next, I shall have someone look for him," Elrond mused, and the two continued on to dinner, more relaxed now despite the worries looming in the back of their minds.

~

"Hit me harder, Otho! This isn't a rumble with the boys down the street! Hit me like I cussed your cousin out!"

"I'm hitting as hard as I can, Bofur! _Ow!_ "

Bilbo lifted his head from inspecting the darkening bruise on his shin, exasperation sending his eyes rolling. While Bofur's taunts to his cousins were admittedly amusing at times, Otho's expression every time Bofur egged him on was shifting from mulish dismay to pure fury. His own pride was wounded enough that he hoped one of the boys would succeed in knocking Bofur down.

Not that Bilbo did not appreciate Bofur teaching them to fight -- quite the opposite. His aching back and bruised shin left him cranky, though, and he openly smirked when Rory and Otho rushed Bofur together and managed to push him a few feet back. They did not keep the Dwarf busy for long, as he easily tossed them onto the grass. The two Hobbit lads were up again quickly, while Drogo shouted suggestions and cheered from several feet away.

At the moment, Bofur was teaching Otho, Drogo, and Rory how to take down a stronger opponent, using one of the smaller courtyards as a training ground. He had demonstrated first with Bilbo, who had managed to knock him down by tripping him (much to the displeasure of his knees and poor shin). The boys were not as sure in their abilities as Bilbo was, nor had they refined their speed or agility, so they were having a tougher time of it.

Bilbo suspected that Bofur had gone easy on him. One flinch from Bilbo when Bofur had grabbed his waist was apparently enough to make the Dwarf turn gentle. It greatly bothered Bilbo, who felt Bofur was not taking him seriously. He had outwitted and escaped Orcs far bigger than Bofur -- he was not a weakling! Though Bofur was rather strong, which Bilbo thought was because he was a Dwarf.

Bilbo was amazed at the strength and power of a Dwarf body. Hobbits were quick and light on their feet -- completely different from Dwarves, who stood immovable and strong like a mountain. Bofur was not as fast as the boys or Bilbo, but what he lacked in speed, he made up for with sturdy legs and powerful arms. He could throw any of the Hobbits across the entire courtyard, though he never went that far.

At least Bilbo had managed to trip Bofur, though his shin was still protesting his decision to twist it under Bofur's knee. Those Dwarf boots were as hard as a rock!

Movement caught Bilbo's attention, and he looked over to see two Elves standing by the pavilion. Elrohir and Elladan, with their twinkling grey eyes and serene expressions -- that, to Bilbo, spoke of mischief, reminding him of his younger Took cousins. He watched them watch his companions, until one of the twins noticed him, and together they made their way to Bilbo.

"Hello again, Bilbo Baggins!" the first twin said, and the note of his voice left Bilbo thinking he was Elrohir. The other twin nodded in greeting, and Bilbo remembered how Elladan had barely spoken to him the last time they had met.

"Hello again, Elrohir and Elladan. Are you enjoying the spectacle my cousins make?" Bilbo asked, raising an eyebrow as he heard another shout from the courtyard, followed by some foul language. He glanced over and watched Rory shout at Bofur, who was grinning. The two Elves followed his gaze, and Bilbo looked back in time to see both of them smirk at the sight.

"Quite so. It is most curious to see two races, so very different, in such an atmosphere. Halflings are usually not so..." Elrohir trailed off.

"Violent," murmured Elladan, and Bilbo stared at them.

"It's hardly violent -- just some tussling between boys. Surely Elves are no different as children?" he asked, hiding his irritation at the implication that his cousins were violent, of all things.

"Elven children grow up very differently from other races," Elrohir explained. "There was the occasional mischief, but Elves are unlike other races in aging. Your cousins, for instance -- how old are they?"

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, but answered readily enough, "Twenty, twenty-two, and twenty-nine. None of them are adults yet, which for Hobbits is when one turns thirty-three. When are Elves considered adults?"

"At such ages, we would appear like small children, but we would have the mental force of an adult Elf. An Elf is physically an adult by the time they are one hundred years of age, which is when most other races have already fallen to age and sickness. To watch the world move so quickly, when one's own time is so slow... it is saddening," Elrohir finished, and Elladan tilted his head toward the courtyard.

"Elven children did not play like this, nor did they train for warfare so young. It is unfortunate your cousins must learn such things," Elladan interjected, surprising Bilbo who had the suspicion that Elladan was much more circumspect than Elrohir. 

Then Bilbo frowned, but his voice was mild as he replied, "I'd like to know what a Hobbit should do if an Orc grabs him and tries to hurt him. Orcs are much stronger and larger than us, and we come from a peaceful life. I want my cousins to survive any fight they may encounter in the future. How is this worse than Elves carrying around swords and bows?"

Both of the Elves looked down at him in surprise, and after a moment it was Elladan who said quietly, "It is not worse, _balaphadro_. Only unfortunate." For a moment, the Elves' expressions faded to distant remorse and pain.

There was such a look on the two Elves' faces then, that Bilbo recognized, and it sent a chill through him. These Elves did not simply know of Orcs and their torments -- they understood the vile acts, perhaps almost as much as Bilbo did. He dipped his head slightly in apology.

 _"I am sorry for overre... for leav... for any offense with my words,"_ Bilbo said finally, unable to call forth the right words in Sindarin, but the twins' expressions lightened.

 _"You did not offend, dear Halfling,"_ Elrohir replied quietly. _"You see, our mother was taken by Orcs as your brethren were. It was we who saved her. Father... went through the same reactions as you do now. We understand the necessity of it. It is still sad to see such a gentle race in our situation."_ For a moment the Elf looked achingly sad, and Bilbo watched them both with dimmed shock, that they truly had experienced what his family had. He had to avert his eyes at the thought -- their mother? Just like him, and his mother --

 _"I am deeply sorry,"_ he whispered, and Elladan and Elrohir bowed their heads.

For a time, they were silent, watching the commotion in the courtyard, until Bilbo remembered something that had bothered him earlier. "If I may ask, young lords," he began, slipping back into Westron, "what does _balaphadro_ mean? You have called me that twice now, and others have said it to my face." He watched the twins, his gaze narrowing a bit as they exchanged a glance that spoke untold volumes.

After a moment, Elrohir answered hesitantly, "Your question has a somewhat complicated answer. What do you know of the Valar?"

"The Valar?" Bilbo questioned, his eyebrows creasing. "Only that they are the Lords of the West, in the lands where the Elves go when they sail from the Grey Havens. Why do you ask?"

The twins exchanged another glance. "I think that is something our _ada_ should explain, Mister Baggins. He is a master of the ancient knowledge of this world, and the name that has been given to you has old history. We are poor substitutes for him," Elrohir explained, and Elladan nodded solemnly, their Elvish miens turning distant.

Bilbo eyed the two Elves, annoyed with their answer, but he showed none of his irritation. "I'll do that," he murmured. Perhaps Elrond would be more forthcoming than his sons.

~

The next evening, Elrond informed the company that Drogo had healed completely, and Gandalf made the decision that they would leave Rivendell in two days' time. Then the Wizard retreated while Bilbo tried not to feel sad. He had grown to enjoy Rivendell very much, with its beautiful library and serene atmosphere. Despite his initial worries, the Elves had warmed to him and his family, and they had been treated very kindly.

It had been a lovely stay -- but Bilbo was ready to go on. He had new knowledge of the history of the lands east of the Misty Mountains, as well as lists of plants and herbs that grew around the Anduin River. Erestor had been most helpful in locating a book that contained gardening techniques for mountain soil. Bilbo even had seeds that someone had generously donated.

(Bilbo had found the gift one morning outside his door, a bag filled with small pouches of seeds with careful labels in Westron, from tomatoes to squashes, and herbs as well, with tiny notes on when best to plant them. He was delighted, but nobody admitted to the deed. He suspected one of the librarians, who may have seen his notes on where to find wild vegetables in the mountains. The grey-robed aides had been most helpful whenever he visited the library, and he made sure to compliment them to Erestor whenever they were in hearing distance.)

Bilbo had at least thanked Elrond, who had smiled mysteriously, but the Elf Lord had not revealed the source of the gift. It was all Bilbo could do not to cry at the kindness -- or at Elrond's promise of supplies for their journey through the Misty Mountains.

He was very happy to have come to this place. Rivendell had acted as a balm to his soul, worn and lost after Azog. He felt like himself again -- reading and laughing and learning and exploring, such as he had as a child. He felt normal again, and not just because of his renewed understanding of his body, but more like a proper Hobbit, with useful manners, and intuition into situations, and a love of good food. Even though darkness and anger lurked in the back of his mind, Bilbo felt _good_ about himself again.

With so little time left, Bilbo forewent visiting the library on the morning after Gandalf announced their departure. Instead, he walked about Rivendell alone, admiring its natural beauty and thinking of how he would very much like to come back here someday. If only he could face his fear of the Mountains ahead and return -- perhaps some long years in the future.

After lunch, he found himself a hall full of statues and relics of Ages past. There was a mural on the wall of a Man holding a shining broken sword up to a figure of darkness, and Bilbo shivered as he looked upon it. He recognized the scene. It had been in his favorite story, _The War of the Last Alliance_.

The sword that had been broken, but which had cut the One Ring from the hand of Sauron the Cruel.

Something burned in his mind for a moment, and Bilbo reached up unthinkingly to touch his necklace, grasping the rings and key that lay hidden under his shirt. He stared at the sword that had taken the Ring from that Dark Lord, his hand slowly tightening, until he felt pain and let go in surprise. He glanced at his hand and saw no blood, but he had gripped his necklace tightly enough to leave indentions. How strange.

Then he turned, and he saw a statue of an Elf with a great stone shield, and on that shield lay a cloth of blue silk. A broken sword glinted in the sunlight, and Bilbo stared down at the shards of Narsil, his eyes slowly widening.

History, right here before his very eyes. How Bilbo itched to find his old book and reread those passages -- what deeds this sword must have seen in its days of glory. He did not reach out to touch it -- he had too much respect for the history in that sword -- but he admired it, idly piecing together the shards in his mind. 

"Do you know the story, Master Hobbit?" a deep voice called, and Bilbo turned to see Elrond himself approaching. He flushed pink and nodded, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I do, Lord Elrond. It was one of my favorite stories as a child," he replied, and Elrond came to stand beside him, his stern expression solemn as he gazed down at the Sword That Was Broken.

"Oh?" Elrond murmured, looking down at Bilbo with interest. "The story of our failures lured you more than sweet fairy tales or songs of better times?"

Bilbo dared a glance up at Elrond, and he relaxed slightly see the twinkle in Elrond's eye, so much like his twin sons. "The history of our world is a wise lesson to learn. Otherwise, we may find ourselves repeating it," he offered, and Elrond's lips twitched into a smile.

"Indeed so, Mister Baggins. Do you not wish to join your companions as they ready to leave? Your family surely could use your assistance."

Bilbo gave a little shrug. "I shan't be missed. My cousins need to learn some independence, after all. I can't be telling them what to do every step of the way. Besides, Bofur has it under control, I think."

Elrond chuckled in response and gestured before him, and together they began to walk along the balcony, the afternoon sun gleaming through the thick leaves. "Have you enjoyed your stay in my home?" Elrond asked, and Bilbo nodded, looking up at the clear blue sky.

"It is a beautiful place. I have enjoyed the people I have met here, and everything that I have learned and experienced. You have been very kind," he said quietly.

"I could do nothing else," Elrond responded, his voice low against the gentle breeze. "I am glad for it, Mister Baggins. You are always welcome in my home, and if you wish to return one day, I will be pleased for it."

Bilbo looked up at him with a small smile, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. "I would like that very much, Lord Elrond," he said, and Elrond smiled back at him.

A moment passed, and Elrond said to him, "On the matter of your departure, I have a proposition for you as a representative of your Thain."

"Oh?" Bilbo managed to say, blinking up at the tall Elf.

"Indeed so. When we first spoke, you told me of the illnesses your brethren suffered. I have thought upon this topic, and I wish to offer my hospitality to those who cannot pass through the Misty Mountains at this time due to their illness. It is my hope that I may treat your kin and heal that which weakens them, as well as devise assistance for those who go to the Vale of Anduin. What was done to you in those mountains cannot be healed in a few weeks, but if I understand what you suffer now, I may be able to send instructions to you in some months' time. With your blessing, I hope to send this offer to your Thain, so that any who need healing may come to my house immediately," Elrond explained to a stunned Bilbo, who could not believe his ears. 

Such kindness! Such willingness to help them -- and before, had Bilbo himself not believed that Elves would do nothing for his kin? He had been mistaken about the Dwarves, who had come to their rescue, and again about the Elves, who were so affected by their plight that they offered aid immediately. Perhaps even Men would prove different than he had once thought -- but for now, he was happy, and he smiled brightly up at Elrond, reaching up to take his hands which were so much larger than a Hobbit's could be.

"Yes -- a hundred times yes. I cannot express how grateful I am to have met you, Elrond, for your kindness, to myself and my kin -- thank you. Thank you! I cannot believe how much you have given us," he rambled, tears coming to his eyes again, and Elrond only smiled kindly at him, squeezing his hands until Bilbo, suddenly embarrassed, let go.

"You are most welcome, good Hobbit. I will send someone to the Shire immediately, then," Elrond said, and Bilbo nodded, his cheek still very pink.

They walked for a little while, as Bilbo's blush calmed, but the quiet between them was not awkward. Elrond was someone with whom he could get along, and he was very glad for the opportunity to speak with him. Bilbo wondered if one day he could talk to Elrond as he could with Erestor, and he wished that he could stay longer. He would have to visit again, sometime after the Vale was settled.

As they neared the main courtyard, Bilbo was reminded of the previous day and his conversation with Elrond's sons. When they neared a private corner, he looked up at Elrond. "If I may ask -- do you know the meaning behind _balaphadro_? The Elves of your house have taken to calling me that name, and I'm afraid I do not know what it means. Your sons said that you would be the best person to explain it," he admitted, and Elrond glanced down at him in surprise. Those grey eyes widened, then narrowed, and Bilbo briefly wondered if he had gotten those two Elves in trouble.

"A heavy question, Mister Baggins. I can indeed answer your question, though it may take some explanation. Would you like to join me for tea?" When Bilbo agreed, Elrond called aside someone, and they proceeded to the Elf Lord's personal study, where Bilbo had once sat over a week ago. No sooner than Bilbo had sat upon a large chair across from Elrond than an Elf came in carrying a tray of tea things and a plate of soft pastries that Bilbo took delight in. When the servant had left and Bilbo was breathing in the steam of his teacup, Elrond looked upon him.

"As my sons must have explained, what the people of my home have taken to calling you has some history behind it. The most direct translation I can offer to that term is, _one who follows the path of the Valar._ Do you know of the Valar, Mister Baggins?"

Bilbo frowned into his cup of tea, remembering when he had first heard the word and tried to pull apart its meaning. "As I told Elladan and Elrohir, all I know of the Valar is that they are the Lords of the West, and it is their lands to which your people sail upon the ends of your lives here. I do not know much past that," he explained, and Elrond sat back in his chair, fingers steepled.

"Let me explain first the etymology of the name chosen for you, Mister Baggins. _Balaphadro._ _Bala_ refers to the Valar, who walked the world before us. _Phadro_ means one who follows, as such on a path. Thus, _balaphadro_ is one who follows the path of the Valar.

"Once, when the world was young and the Eldar were but children under the stars, we woke from our first sleep to meet the world as it was. At that time, the Valar walked among us, and they guided us through the chaos that darkness called upon this land. After much warring with those dark forces, the Valar saved us from the wrath which sought to destroy us all.

"During that time, many Elves followed the Valar on their paths through Middle-earth, through every dark shadow that they battled. There were fourteen of them, and sometimes they lay gifts upon their followers. The Valar favored the Maiar, of course, but some of the Eldar received gifts as well. These few Elves were called _balaphadro_ , for they carried their gifts with grace no matter what they suffered."

For a few moments, Elrond was silent, while Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes. He wished immediately to fly to the library and look up everything about these Valar, for he knew very little about the beginning of their world. Then he hesitated, wondering what this had to do with _him_ \-- why would Elves call him such a historical name?

"To most of this world, the Valar are known as the Lords of the West. To the Elves who linger here, the Valar are our Lords and more; they are the essence of Ilúvatar. It was they who sang to him of the world, and it was his will that the song came into being, and us with it."

"So they helped begin the world?" Bilbo asked after a moment, and Elrond hummed in reply, picking up a gleaming flask and pouring a faintly green liquid into a glass.

"Indeed so. Each Valar worked on a particular part of the world. Have Hobbits never wondered how our world began?" Elrond asked, and Bilbo hummed as he recalled older songs that he had never given much attention.

"There are not many history books of our people, but we do have songs. Some songs sing of a mother, but most think of that as the earth itself," Bilbo said, wondering if he could ask his older relatives about those songs.

Elrond replied, "One can only suppose how Hobbits came to be, but all save the Dwarves were created by Eru Ilúvatar, and they were created by Aulë. Perhaps one of the Valar petitioned him. If your oldest songs sing of a mother, then I might even suppose that Yavanna, wife of Aulë, had something to do with Hobbits. She loved all things that grow, and it was she who planted the first seeds of the world."

Bilbo sat quietly for some time, digesting all that Elrond had told him and wondering at the largeness of it all. Something in Elrond's words niggled at him, made him wonder, made old dreams rise to the back of his mind -- but Bilbo did not understand, and he did not want to. 

He wondered at the truth of it, but he feared he might never understand. It eased his mind a bit, to know that Dwarves already apparently knew of these Valar and their hand in creating this world. The Elves had their beliefs, but Hobbits were simple creatures, and they cared little of what had happened long ago, only what happened now and could happen in the future.

It was a very interesting story. Perhaps someday he might be able to understand. For now, what use was it to know of creators and spirits of ancient times, when they were no longer here? But then Bilbo realized that Elrond had not quite explained why _he_ of all Hobbits was called that name. He looked up at Elrond and set down his tea. "And the _balaphadro_ \-- those who were gifted, as you said. Why do I share their name? I am but a simple Hobbit," he said quietly.

Elrond looked at him with piercing grey eyes. "You shine with a light that no other Hobbit ever has, Mister Baggins -- a light that could only be gifted by one of those faraway Lords. You are clever, indeed, and you have done heroic deeds -- but you insist that you are a simple creature, of a simple people. Every _balaphadro_ in our oldest stories was like you. They insisted they were not special, that they were not heroic or just or mighty.

"I believe you were given a gift, to help you protect your people. I see this in you, as do the members of my house; they cannot explain it, but they understand it just the same. So they call you _balaphadro_ , because you walked that same path as the Valar once did. You guided your people out of the darkness, and you granted them mercy when you could not save them. None in my house know of what you told me and Glorfindel that day, but they see it, all the same. They see the light in you that led you out of that darkest place."

Bilbo stared up at Elrond, feeling something in him tremble at the truth of it, but he could not believe such pretty words. He was no hero, and he was not a good person, not after all that he had done in those mountains. He was not special. He had just done only what was right, at that time, and it was no hero's duty. Whatever light the Elves saw in him -- it mattered not, because he was not that person. He was only Bilbo, and no matter what they called him -- _pain-bearer, naeggyl, balaphadro_ \-- he would not change for them. Perhaps he had been given a gift -- but it was also a curse, and he wished it had never happened.

"I see," he murmured, sipping his tea slowly and trying to ignore the sensation of the world spinning around him. "Does... Gandalf know about this?" he asked after a moment, his voice quiet, and he watched Elrond nod. His expression fell into contemplation, thinking of the Wizard's reactions to him over the past few weeks, and Elrond watched him closely, his solemn expression saddening slightly.

"I did not mean to upset you, guest of my home," Elrond said quietly. "Mithrandir means well, surely." 

Bilbo shook his head, giving a faint smile. "You know, I have heard that it is unwise to seek the council of Elves, for they will answer both yes and no. In this, you have not failed the rumor of you, Lord Elrond. What you told me is not what bothers me, but what it means for my past. Thank you for telling me," he finished quietly, and Elrond watched him for a long moment, until his mouth twitched into a faint smile.

"What I have heard of Hobbits is that they are very resilient. You and your kin amaze me every time I think upon your plight, Mister Baggins. I wish you and your brethren the best, and I hope you find a new home in the Anduin Vale," Elrond said quietly, and Bilbo gave him a small smile. He breathed in deeply, to help clear his head, and he caught an odd scent.

"What is that you are drinking?" Bilbo asked after a moment, and Elrond blinked.

"It is springwine, made from the fruit of a tree that grows not far from here. We harvest the fruits in late summer, but the wine is not ready until just as the snow melts for spring. Would you like to try it?"

Bilbo perked up a bit, ready to put aside all that they had talked about for a time. Hobbits were always interested in trying new things, and he told Elrond so. Elrond found another glass and poured some for Bilbo, who sipped the light, flavorful wine with fascination. Elvish wine! Wouldn't his Took cousins be jealous!

Despite the heavy topics of their earlier conversation, Bilbo sat with Elrond for some time, drinking wine and tea and speaking of many things. The plate of pastries was steadily emptied, and at one point Erestor peeked in on them, to find that Elrond had spread a large map of Middle-earth over his desk, and he and Bilbo were leaning over it and talking animatedly. Erestor only shook his head after a concerned glance at the old map and left. Glorfindel was next to visit, and he could only stare in surprise, that Elrond and Bilbo of all people could speak so easily. His message was received and summarily dismissed, and Glorfindel left, looking rather bewildered.

Finally, Gandalf peered into the room, and was shocked to see the black gleaming hair of Elrond bowed close with the dark blond curls of Bilbo. He hesitated, listening for any strangeness in their conversation, but the two spoke of historical things that did not interest him. Finally he managed to announce that dinner was about to be served, and only then did Elrond roll up the map, while Bilbo, whose cheeks were strangely flushed, gave him a cheerful smile.

"Have you finally come out of hiding then, Gandalf?" Bilbo said, a small hiccup escaping him, and Gandalf realized that the Hobbit was tipsy. He shot a look at Elrond, who merely smiled, before sighing.

"I have not been hiding, my dear boy --"

"Oh, but you have! And I do not blame you for it, even though I have been very cross with you, my dear old man! But that is neither here nor there, and I am willing to forgive you, so long as you stop being so mysterious!" Bilbo said, his grin turning cheeky, and Gandalf stared at him. Then Bilbo bowed good-bye to Elrond and sauntered out the door, a small sway to his large feet, and Gandalf looked at Elrond in bemusement.

"What have you been telling that Hobbit?" he demanded, and Elrond laughed.

"Oh, this and that, my dear friend. Come, let us retire to supper, where it will be most amusing to see such a small Hobbit sing, as he has promised." With that worrisome tidbit, Elrond swept Gandalf from his study after Bilbo, much to the Wizard's consternation.

~

The long road through Mirkwood always left Thorin feeling cranky and disturbed. The path itself was easy to travel, especially with a company of highly-trained and fully-armed dwarrows, despite the heavy presence of Elves in the forests. None of the Elves actually bothered them, but just seeing an Elf through the trees left him grumbling.

The woods had been dark and murky since long ago, but soon after becoming King and starting the Eastern Council, Thorin had grudgingly worked together with Thranduil the Elvenking to empty the forests of the many nests of Spiders, Orcs, and other dark creatures that lurked in the shadows of those trees. It had been neither Thorin's nor Thranduil's idea, but Beorn's, who had insisted that if the Councils were going to continue, and if they were to change locations every time they met, then the roads would need to be cleared for easy travel between the realms. Indeed, after the road was first cleared and the next Council convened, the Lady of Lothlorien herself came to visit, acknowledging their hard work and leaving a few mysterious words before disappearing into Thranduil's realm. Thranduil had been determined to clean the forest ever since.

That had been over a hundred years ago. Since then, all of the forest north of the mountains of Mirkwood had been cleansed of darkness, through the joint efforts of Men, Elves, and Dwarves. Trade had since increased with the safer travel paths, and all of the nations had prospered. The East had become a great region that attracted many Men, Dwarves, and even Elves from across Middle-earth.

Ever since, Lady Galadriel had visited many Eastern Councils, but not every time, and sometimes for no other discernible reason than to smile mysteriously at everybody and be very cryptic with her words -- particularly to Thorin, with whom she would mostly speak in Khuzdul, just to exasperate him. He still had no idea how she knew the language.

Thorin did not much like Galadriel. Dís and Frerin usually ignored him when he complained about her presence.

She was easier to deal with than Thranduil, at least, who bothered Thorin when they were in different cities and infuriated him when they were forced into the same room. There was no dealing with Thranduil -- he was arrogant, haughty, rude, and truly one of the most irritating individuals that Thorin had ever met.

Thorin had always thought Thranduil arrogant, but it was not until he became King and had to deal with the Elvenking personally that he came to understand the true treachery within Thranduil's character. The Elvenking was selfish and cruel, and far too capricious for Thorin to trust him. After what Thranduil had done -- or not done, as was often the case with the Elvenking, who would nary lift a finger to help a Dwarf, let alone send his warriors whenever Thorin called for aid -- Thorin could not speak to him without an argument.

At least he had not yet murdered Thranduil. There was something to be said about his patience.

"Daydreaming on the road, Thorin Oakenshield? My, what would your sister say?" called a deep voice that made the hair on Thorin's body stand on edge. He turned slowly to behold the Elvenking himself standing upon a ledge above them, his favored warriors gathered around them, long Elven hands clutching their bows as if they dearly wanted to the shoot the company of Dwarves below. Immediately Thorin's guards went for their weapons, but Thorin shifted his hand in a small signal, and they subsided.

"What brings you out of your trees, Elvenking? Did a spider get loose in your rooms again?" he answered loudly, making the Dwarves snicker and the Elves above them sneer. Thranduil stared at him with an impassive mien, but Thorin saw the glint of malice in his pale gaze. Good.

"Is your war march done then? Is next year's Council to be graced with your presence once more?" Thranduil asked boredly, and Thorin glared.

"As if you hadn't heard my herald when he came around the first time. I was successful! The ancient halls of Khazad-dûm belong to the Dwarves again! My army marched home ahead of me, in case you were too drunk to notice. Now I return home to my kingdom," Thorin declared, and Thranduil clasped his hands behind his back, looking down his nose at Thorin.

"Pity for the kingdom that awaits such a king. Watch your step in my forest, Thorin Oakenshield. I would not have your company ruining my paths," Thranduil commanded, and he turned to disappear back into the shadows, but Thorin had a parting remark that had the Elvenking's shoulders stiffening.

"Watch your step at the next Council, Thranduil Elvenking. Since it will be in Erebor, it would be a failure of our hospitality if you lost your way, as my Dwarves once did in your woods," Thorin growled, and he turned and stormed further into the woods, his guards following quickly, as Thranduil turned to watch them leave.

Worthless, arrogant, malicious Elf -- there was no dealing with him. Thorin almost wished that Dis would continue to go to the Councils for him, so that he would no longer have to deal with Thranduil. Trust an Elf to insult a guest of his woods personally!

At least soon he would be out of these horrible woods, and he would be nearly home. Then he could see his family again. Perhaps there might even be a letter waiting for him, from the Hobbit he had left behind -- but Thorin tried not to think about that. He had thought about the Hobbit far too often these past weeks, imagining the day he would see him again, thinking of the celebration his kingdom would give to the hero of the War.

But that would have to wait until Bilbo Baggins actually visited him, which might be years in the future. Until then, he would have to make do with letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely darling beta readers! And to all of you who keep reading! <333
> 
> I am so sorry for the long wait! RL has gotten in the way yet again, and I've been prepping a bunch of stuff for _Pain-Bearer_ and its associated stories, so there will be lots of goodies for you guys! :3 **In fact, you can go check out the new[Deleted Scenes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/968907/chapters/1902617), which has a [scene](http://archiveofourown.org/works/968907/chapters/1904064) for this chapter!** And keep an eye out for the first chapter of _Seven Years_!
> 
> Also, check out this [lovely and amazing fanart](http://crackedhopehead.deviantart.com/art/Pain-Bearer-You-can-t-break-me-The-Hobbit-398206298) by CrackedHopeHead!!! It's GORGEOUS ;A; (Here is a [tumblr post](http://amberstarfight.tumblr.com/post/60353078077/you-will-never-break-me-by-crackedhopehead-on) of the picture, in case you don't have a deviantart account, as the picture is rated mature! But please go visit the original page!)


	28. Lit by the edge of the sun

Once again, Bilbo had to say goodbye. At least Erestor did not have the large, sweet Hobbit eyes to make him regret saying the words, but that did not mean he was happy to say them.

He woke to a mild headache that was only soothed by a cup of very strong tea. Still, his headache was not irritating enough to stop him from packing alongside his cousins, with the surprising help of Erestor, who showed up at his door with a tea tray, a lovely assortment of pastries, and Bilbo's chest of books.

Every book that lay within had been painstakingly and carefully cleaned, rebound with supple leather, and gently engraved with titles in silver script. Bilbo lifted the books out with reverence, his eyes stinging as Erestor looked on with a faint line between his brow. He noticed then that his mother's glory box had been cleaned as well, oiled and shining, and a breath caught in his throat.

"I hope you did not mind, but I amended some of the ones with torn pages, so the script may be different, but the information is certainly the same. Is it not enough? I should have chosen a better leather, but I thought of the climate of the Vale and --"

"They're perfect," Bilbo whispered, and Erestor shut his mouth quickly, though his gaze warmed.

Bilbo knew that Gandalf was ensconced in deliberation with Elrond, and Bofur had disappeared sometime earlier that morning. Across and down the hall, Rory, Drogo, and Otho raced around in a flurry of activity, shouting at each other as they tried to find everything that, in their enjoyment of staying in a place with proper beds for more than one night, they had thrown about their rooms as if they truly lived within these walls. Bilbo rolled his eyes as he heard a shout, followed by a scuffle. Erestor raised an eyebrow, but Bilbo distracted him with a plea to help him pack, and Erestor was all too content to assist.

"I will write letters to you in the Vale," Erestor declared as he folded Bilbo's clothes into a bag. "I will send you books, so that you do not grow bored in the winter. You will write back." His long fingers fluttered over the shirt he had just picked up, and Bilbo smiled up at his arrested expression.

"I will write," he promised, reaching up to grip Erestor's hands briefly, before letting go and looking into his mother's glory box, happy to see his precious books looking like normal again. Then he frowned. "Was it always this full?"

Beside him, Erestor twitched, as if in guilt, and Bilbo looked at him in surprise. "Erestor, did you --"

"Bilbo! I can't find my vest! Have you seen it?" called Drogo from the other room, and Bilbo gave Erestor an amused glance before going to help his cousin. When the vest was found and he returned, the glory box was closed, and Erestor once again was composed.

The Elf was arranging Bilbo's clothes still, and Bilbo walked over to help. "I suspect that box will be heavier than it was when I came to Rivendell," he teased, and Erestor let out a sniff, picking unseen bits of lint from Bilbo's shirt.

"I'm certain I have no idea of what you are speaking," the Elf said loftily.

"Certainly," Bilbo huffed, and after a moment they smiled at each other.

When his belongings were packed into bulging bags and trunks, Bilbo sat down on the bed and looked around the room that had given him such restful sleep. He sighed -- he did not want to leave only to spend future nights on a lumpy bedroll on the ground. He would miss the steady meals and the peaceful atmosphere, and most of all --

"I wish we had more time," sighed Erestor, standing in front of Bilbo.

"I would come back to visit, if you would like," Bilbo offered, shy with the newness of their friendship. "And... you could visit me, as well. Once my home is complete."

Erestor watched him, solemn features warming, as they did often in Bilbo's presence. "I shall visit, as will you. Though we have had little time to know one another, I feel as if you and I have been friends for a long time. We converse with such ease and share interests so closely. I am glad to have met you, Bilbo."

Bilbo smiled up at Erestor, warmed by his open mien and words of camaraderie. He reached out to take Erestor's hands and squeezed them, pleased that he had made such a wonderful friend. "I feel just as you do, Erestor. I hope that our letters are long and frequent, and I hope you will visit soon! Thank you for _everything_ you have done for me. My books... my research, and your gifts. Don't think I didn't notice how you snuck in my favorites of the books I borrowed." Erestor looked chagrinned, and Bilbo laughed, his cheeks turning pink as he thought of the titles he had glimpsed in the glory box. "Thank you. I cannot thank you enough."

Erestor's gaze softened, and he squeezed Bilbo's hands back before letting go. "You never need thank me, Bilbo. All this I was glad to do, and more. I will miss you and think of you often, and I wish you all the luck with your journey." They shared another smile, until another scuffle in the hallway distracted them both.

"Best go see what other trouble they've gotten into," Bilbo sighed, but he had a smile on his face as he left his room, Erestor following with a small laugh.

~

To say goodbye to Rivendell was to walk through its halls and think of all that had changed. Bilbo took his time, as everything had been loaded onto the wagon and all that remained was to add generous supplies of grain and other food from Elrond's stores. What had changed was not just how he was received by the members of Elrond's house, but also how he looked upon this realm, as well as how he looked upon himself.

He noticed that unlike the first time he traversed these halls, he was greeted with smiling faces and well wishes for his journey. No longer did Bilbo look at these Elves with distrust and fear. Now he accepted their kind words and did his best not to hide or flinch away -- and after enjoying the warmth of Rivendell, it was too easy to view these people as those who would not harm him.

It was with a light heart that Bilbo visited the library one last time, to return the last of the books he had borrowed and to explore it once more. He would borrow nothing else, but perhaps there were topics he could make a note to research on his next visit -- for surely, as he had promised Erestor, he would return to Rivendell, someday in the future.

It was among the books about Greenwood and the Elvenking Thranduil's realm that Bilbo found a most curious sight -- Bofur, nose stuck in a thick volume that Bilbo had not read, but that he recognized as one his fingers had passed over a few times before while searching for related books. Bilbo stopped short and stared. Bofur had a few papers sticking out of his pocket, and instead of looking pleased with what he was reading, his brow had gathered together in a fierce frown, and he was muttering to himself.

"Bofur?" Bilbo called, and as if struck by lightning, Bofur jumped and whirled around, eyes wide.

"I'm not doi-- oh, Bilbo, it's just you," Bofur said with a sigh of relief, closing the book and shoving it back on the shelf, but Bilbo did not miss how Bofur's gaze darted to the book as his fingers let it go.

"Yes, I was just returning the books I had borrowed. What were you reading? Was it interesting?" Bilbo asked, curious because Bofur had never before shown such an interest in books.

"Yeah, just thought I'd see what had attracted you so much to this place. So! All packed up?" Bofur said, clasping his hand Bilbo's shoulder, and before Bilbo knew it, the two were walking out of the library, caught up in conversation. He would only recall the odd moment later that night, and he would think little more of it, because who was he to judge someone for reading?

Their dinner that night was more subdued than the previous night's, though it was no less joyful. Well wishes and good-byes were toasted to the Company, and Bilbo went to bed that night with a smile, resting deeply and with no dreams.

Their departure took place early in the morning, and Bilbo had little more to do than urge his sleepy cousins onto the cart before sitting beside Bofur. Elrond, his sons, Glorfindel, and Erestor saw them off, and Bilbo waved good-bye until Rivendell was too far away to see the faces of the friends he had made.

The entrance to Moria was about four days away, and with every hour that passed, Bilbo saw the mountains that had haunted his dreams loom ever higher. He remembered the days that he had been dragged alongside his mother, and he could not help his shivers. Rory slunk behind him and ended up, more often than not, pressing to Bilbo's back as he entertained Drogo and Otho, and Bilbo did not miss how Rory's shoulders hunched in further the closer they traveled. Oftentimes, Bilbo would turn to join the conversation, both to soothe his nerves, and to ease the anxiety that was growing in his cousins' minds.

All the while he remembered, and oh, how he tried to forget.

~

Far on the other side of the Misty Mountains, lay a kingdom resplendent in its power and might, hidden beneath a lonely peak covered in snow. Two massive statues of stone twisted into the likeness of Dwarven kings of long ago stood at the grand entrance, protecting the thousands of Dwarves that lived within its halls. It was the greatest kingdom in the land, and it was called Erebor.

The king had not yet returned home, but that did not keep the kingdom from running as usual, headed by Frerin and Dís, brother and sister of Thorin, King under the Mountain. The Prince managed official duties that King Thorin would have commanded, while the Princess held absolute power over the various and many guilds of Erebor. Thorin's kingdom was safe and well protected within their hands.

The two young princes of Erebor, Fíli and Kíli, had learned a great deal about ruling and government under their mother's and uncle's tutelage, during the years of Thorin's war march. Fíli, as the firstborn and Thorin's heir, was well into being groomed to be king someday, though they all hoped that such a day was far in the future. Fíli, like his brother, was young and impetuous, though the weight of responsibility had culled many of his wilder urges. By contrast, his brother Kíli, who was next in line to inherit General Dwalin's position as leader of the military, was still excitable and carefree. Fíli was not yet so solemn in his duties, though, that Kíli could not easy entice him into mischief.

It was all Princess Dís could do not to shake both of them, for they were still children at heart. She was proud of them, as only a mother could be, but oh, how those boys frustrated her.

Today, for instance, Kíli had ducked out of his practice with Dwalin and had nearly coerced Fíli into sneaking out to Dale. Nearly, because Dís had walked upon their plotting, and all too quickly she had taken Kíli's ear in hand and given him a stern lecture. Dwalin showed up ten minutes later, and Kíli was escorted away, giving his mother and brother betrayed looks.

Fíli had wisely remained silent when Dís had turned her wrath upon him. He now walked beside her as they made their way to the Central Guild, the focal point of all of the commerce in Erebor. At various points behind them, guards walked, allowing the royal family their privacy, while protecting them all the same.

"You cannot let him continue to get away with this childish behavior! He is a prince of this nation, and I will not have him go gallivanting about and bringing shame upon this family. Your uncles will both hear of this, and I will have you know now, son of mine, that if you join him in any of his antics, I will not hesitate to drag both of you across my lap like the children you want to be!"

"He's just anxious because Thorin has yet to return home," Fíli said quietly, and Dís turned her head with a sharp look at her son. Fíli met her gaze steadily, and after a moment Dís sighed.

"We all are, Fíli, but that does not mean that the rest of us will choose to break into the barracks in Dale and leave chickens in the soldiers' beds. That boy is a menace! How do I still love him?" she lamented, and Fíli huffed a small laugh.

"Because he is still your son, as am I. He will settle down when Thorin arrives. It should be soon," Fíli said, but it was with a weary note that echoed in Dís' mind. How many times had they said that? How many times had they thought, _Surely he will come home today,_ only to wait for nothing.

"How did you become so wise, my son?" Dís asked, a small smile softening her serious mien. He was becoming more like Níli every day, and though Fíli looked more like his father, he had her eyes. It eased the ache she sometimes felt when she looked at him. How ironic it was, for the son that looked like his father to inherit the line from his uncle? And Kíli, who would take on the duties of the line of Lí -- he worshipped Thorin. All it took was one word from Thorin for Kíli to behave.

At least they both had known their father, and loved him. At least her brothers loved them in return, childish and immature as they sometimes acted.

"I learned it from you," Fíli said, in a flat tone that had a chuckle escaping Dís before she realized it.

"You have been spending too much time with Frerin," she said to him, as they passed beneath the Arch and turn onto the pathway into the Guild. She did not mind when Fíli smirked at her, reaching up to tug affectionately at one of his braids.

"Pay attention today. We have visitors from Fogrín's folk, and every one of the dunderheads he sends to me is surlier than both of your uncles together. Keep your wits about you," Dís lectured, and Fíli nodded obediently. Dís lead him into the Guild, even if he knew his way by now. He was content to let her take charge, though.

He was more here as a formality, than to learn anything of Guild matters. Fíli would need to know the politics, if he ever had to settle cases, but Dís knew that his mind was not inclined toward business as hers was. Kíli certainly had never inherited that side of her; her younger son took after his father with his love of fighting and tactics. Fíli was more like Frerin in his interests, and he was slower to temper like Frerin as well -- unlike Dís, Thorin, and Kíli.

Dís had not decided, yet, whom she would choose for the Guild to vote on when she was to leave her position. Every one of the guilds would get a vote, and if she chose poorly, it would reflect on her past decisions as Guild Master. If either of her sons had a child that was inclined toward business, perhaps. Their cousin Glóin had a small brood of children, and he had always been good with business. Perhaps Glóin's son Gimli held promise, or better yet one of his daughters, especially if either Fíli or Kíli took an interest in their distant relations.

Dís would have to wait and see. For now, she would teach her sons what she could. She could wait for an heir, for she would not leave her position anytime soon.

"Consider my thoughts, son of mine. Your brother is growing into a position that will be, at once, feared and respected across the lands of this world. He will command the armies at your disposal, and instead of studying and learning as he should, he frolics and runs about like a child. His friends may think it merry fun, but what respect can be wrought of a few paltry tricks? Pranks on our allies, jokes at the expense of our diplomats -- it is _embarrassing._ "

Dís took a moment to gather her thoughts. "I never wished for you or your brother to grow up so quickly, after your father..." She stopped herself, and she did not look at Fíli, who had taken the loss of their father as badly as she had. His silence spoke volumes, and after a moment of silence, Dís had recovered enough to continue.

"I know my sons, and I know that your brother is a loving, playful boy. But if he is to become a Dwarf of legend, he must grow into that seat of power. Please speak with him. He cannot stand my glares, nor Frerin's lectures. You and Thorin are the only ones he listens to, and Thorin is not here," Dís finished quietly, slowing as they approached the door. 

She looked up at her son, who stared into the Hall of Commerce, eyebrows furrowed in a way that struck her. Fíli looked _so much_ like Níli, and yet there, in his eyes -- the deepening solemnity of Frerin, and the darker hesitance of Thorin. Mostly, though, Dís saw in his eyes a mirror: his own frustration with his brother, despite his ambivalence whenever Kíli's antics were brought up.

"I will speak to him," Fíli said at last, and Dís smiled at him. Then they went into the Hall together to begin the day's business.

~

_Swish._ Thud. Creak. _Swish._ Thud. Creak. _Swish._

" _'You must cease these immature tricks!'_ they say! _'You must act like an adult!'_ they say! A few jokes, and suddenly I am, once again, the blight of this family. It never ends!" ranted Kíli, youngest of the royal line of Durin, as he destroyed a large target painted with a crude picture of an Orc. Arrow after arrow, he slotted and let them fly, never caring that he destroyed half his arrows, ignoring the burn in his fingers as he sought to relieve his frustration.

"Is that what they're calling you these days?" called a teasing voice, and Kíli just barely stopped from loosing an arrow into his brother's face as he turned abruptly.

"Fíli," he breathed. Then his brow drew together again, as he noticed the serious expression on his brother's face despite the lilt in his voice. Without another word he turned away and continued to let arrows loose into the Orc's face.

He expected a lecture. He expected his mother's and uncle's words parroted back to him, in the same stream of judgement he suffered this morning when Dwalin had finally deemed him properly punished. Instead, he felt a faint _swoosh_ of air by his head, and he saw one of Fíli's daggers land amidst the sea of arrows. Another followed, and then Kíli continued alongside his brother, until the Orc was merely a splattering of paint upon splintered wood.

It was not as if he did not realize how needless his antics truly were. It was only a bit of fun. Something to help pass the long winter months when they had few visitors and too much free time. His soldiers enjoyed it -- not that they were truly _his_ soldiers, the way Dwalin carried on -- so what was so terrible about a few jokes? It was not as if he did not use the opportunity to look into the documents hidden in the Dale Marshall's office every time.

Kíli had _not_ missed his mentor's lectures, though he was glad for Dwalin's return. Seven years was seven years too many spent suffering through the stern glowers of Nyrad, Dwalin's second in command, even though Dwalin was hardly better.

At least Dwalin's training did not have Kíli running himself _completely_ ragged. He believed Nyrad was out to torture him.

Still Fíli did not speak to him, so Kíli crossed the small training ground to grab two swords from the wall. This ground had been theirs as long as they had known to fight -- inherited from their mother and uncles, who had learned the arts of war in this very room over a century ago. Kíli tossed one of the swords to Fíli, who caught it neatly, and twirled his own in his hand, smirking.

"Come at me, brother," he taunted, and Fíli grinned back at him before rushing forward.

It was easy to fall into the dance of a fight. He and Fíli knew each other better than they knew themselves, and despite Fíli's bulk and Kíli's agility, they were well matched. Neither gave quarter. Neither backed off. It was rushed, and wild, and Kíli felt his frustration and anger melting away, as he exchanged blows and taunts with his brother. He saw that same drain of emotion from the weight that had drawn his brother's brows downward, and he felt glad that in this room, between just the two of them, there was no strife.

Neither of them won -- but they grew too exhausted to continue, and Kíli staggered to the table where he kept canteens of water. He threw one at Fíli who drank greedily from the metal, and Kíli grimaced as he realized the water was stale. Had it really been so long since he had trained down here? He glanced across the room at the destroyed target, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

He had painted that four months ago. Usually they were destroyed within a single month. Perhaps he had been focusing too much attention on his pranks after all, and not enough on his own training.

"We'll have to paint a new one," Fíli said quietly, taking Kíli's empty canteen and setting it back on the table. Kíli made a thoughtful noise, sliding his gaze over to his brother.

"Perhaps with the good Elvenking this time?" he asked slyly, and Fíli snorted even as he shot Kíli a scolding look.

"Even you should remember the blistering we received from Frerin the last time we used King Thranduil. What about a Troll? Dwalin said they had to fight a couple in the battle, didn't he?" Fíli said thoughtfully. Kíli's eyes widened with glee.

"He did! A Troll would be perfect, Fíli, good thinking! I'll have to find some spare wood," Kíli said, already plotting how best to paint his new masterpiece. As he studied the wall where they usually fixed their targets, he noticed that Fíli stayed silent, and his shoulders sank slightly.

_Here it comes._

"Have you ever thought to tell Dwalin about your little spy network?" Fíli asked, and Kíli sent him a sharp glance. He busied himself with hanging up his bow and the two swords, and Fíli allowed his silence, moving to straighten what mess Kíli left behind.

"You shouldn't know about that," Kíli said after a moment, and Fíli shot him a smirk.

"Like you can keep anything from me. I know you used to meet Nori at the tavern on Silvercrest. Be a bit more subtle, would you? Not to mention your occasional spars with Bofur," Fíli said, grinning, and Kíli huffed a scowl, shoving at his brother's shoulder.

"You know Dwalin never appreciated that side of command. He _hates_ Nori, and the less said of Bofur's involvement, the better. Besides, with both of them gone, who else was to carry on their work?"

"Maybe Nori's partner in crime?"

"Ha! He couldn't sneak his way out of a coal mine," Kíli grumbled. "I can't believe you! Stay out of my spy network." Kíli pouted, and Fíli laughed at him, tugging him out of the room.

"Come, we should find supper. Are you telling me your future king should not know of his kingdom's best kept secrets? You forget, while you suffered at Dwalin's and Nyrad's hands, I learned a thing or two from Thorin and Frerin. Nothing escapes them, no matter how quick you are to hide it, brother dear," Fíli said, his voice dropping as they walked closer to the busier halls.

Kíli sulked, envying his brother for the time he spent with Thorin. Hopefully when Thorin came home, Kíli would be able to spend some close time with him. How he had missed his uncle! Home did not feel right, for Thorin to be gone so long.

They walked in silence together for a few minutes, an easy companionship, before Kíli felt the need to ask the question that had been burning in his mind since Fíli had walked into the training hall earlier.

"Aren't you going to lecture me?" he asked with a sigh.

Fíli glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "And have you resent me for it? You don't need me yelling at you. I know you the best, after all, and I know why you do these things. Mother, Frerin, and Dwalin may seem harsh, but they do love you, brother. They worry, as I do. They expect us to be adults as they are, but we are still young. We need not rush to be like them. Though... perhaps you could make your tricks more subtle? Chickens in the barracks, _really_?"

"It was to be a ruse! A distraction! So that I could borrow one of their maps of King Thranduil's woods! You know he trusts Lord Tyrion more than he trusts us," Kíli complained, and Fíli laughed.

"So that your next prank would be in Thranduil's halls? Though Thorin would surely approve, Frerin might just have your head, dear brother. Best to lay low for a while, anyway," Fíli chortled.

Kíli stayed silent, before he shoved at Fíli's side. "Why must you be so wise? _Oh king_ ," he said sarcastically, and Fíli smirked at him.

Then they both froze when a horn sounded, with several more horns blaring in quick succession. The loud calls sang in triumph and celebration, ringing in the same tones over and over, announcing to the entire nation -- the return of the king. Fíli and Kíli stared at each other for a beat, then took off running down the hall, elated grins erupting on their faces.

"Thorin has returned!"

~

When Thorin sighted the front gate of his home, he sighed so deeply that his pony snuffed in surprise. Thorin patted its neck and nudged the animal forward, smiling to himself when he heard the horns again. They had bypassed Dale, as Thorin would take his time to meet with Lord Tyrion later, after he had rested and seen to his kingdom. Erebor stood tall and glorious as always, the statues of his ancestors standing guard against any whom might think the Dwarves easy prey.

They had passed Ravenhill almost three hours ago, and Thorin had smiled when one of the ravens flew off toward Erebor. An hour later, he had heard horns in the distance. The sounds had spurred him, urged him forward, and his small company began to ride faster. From there, it was only a short ride, until they had come to Erebor's Front Gate, standing tall in the mountain. The sun was setting to his side, but Thorin took no heed of it, as his gaze was fastened on the five figures striding out of the Gate.

His brother, Frerin, just a step behind his sister Dís. His nephews, Fíli and Kíli, ran past them toward Thorin, and Dwalin, his closest friend, strode behind the four royal family members, while guards and citizens followed in their wake. Thorin felt a grin taking over his solemn expression, and he pulled the pony to a stop and dismounted, striding forward.

Kíli reached him first, grabbing onto him and not letting go, and Thorin hugged him back tightly, feeling a burn in the back of his throat. 

"I've missed you, uncle," Kíli whispered in his ear, and Thorin nodded.

"You as well," he murmured back, his chest warming as he pulled away and looked over his nephew. Taller, but still no beard -- and yet Thorin could not care. He cupped Kíli's face and rested their foreheads together for a moment, then turned to see Fíli beside him.

Fíli exchanged a happy glance with Kíli, who stepped back, and Thorin wrapped his arms around his heir, gripping the back of his neck and looking over Fíli's face.

"You are older," Thorin said roughly, and Fíli laughed.

"Still younger than you," he returned fondly, and Thorin smiled.

"Move aside, sons of mine! I want to see my brother," came a stern voice that Thorin had greatly missed, and he smirked when Fíli shuffled aside quickly, looking upon his sister who scowled at him. Then the dark expression melted into a bright grin, and Thorin quickly pulled her into a hug, holding her close for several moments, relishing the feel of her.

A strong arm wrapped around his shoulder, pushing Dís closer, and Thorin looked up to see his brother, who was smiling with joy in his dark eyes. Dís shifted to make room, and the three siblings embraced tightly. Thorin felt the years of weariness begin to seep away, knowing that he was home, that his family was safe, that the danger to his most precious people was gone. He had been away for too long!

Dwalin clapped him on the back, smiling widely at him. Beyond his friends, Thorin's citizens were laughing, crying, and smiling as they beheld their king's return. As Thorin separated from his siblings and nephews, the large crowd parted, every Dwarf bowing low as Thorin began to stride forward. Above them, the horns rang out, and Thorin held his head high. 

He had no crown on his head. His clothes were worn and tattered. He was exhausted, dirty, and aching. Yet Thorin Oakenshield was welcomed as the King of his nation, and everyone he passed felt joy at the return of their King.

~

Miles and miles south of a celebration for the return of a king, two Orcs huddled close and muttered to each other in a small, dingy hallway, deep in an ancient stronghold.

 _"We need to tell him! He asked to know immediately if we found it,"_ one Orc whispered harshly.

The second Orc hit the first upside the head. _"He is with the Necromancer! We cannot interrupt,"_ he growled, and both Orcs flinched when they heard a shrill scream from beyond the wall beside them.

They waited, until at last the door to the room beyond opened, and a wave of malice passed them, though they only saw a flash of darkness. They rushed into the room, immediately halting before Bolg.

 _"Strongest of the old lines! We have news, great Bolg!"_ the second Orc said, ducking low, and Bolg turned, his mouth twisting in a snarl.

 _"I am busy,"_ he said, then turned back to the small, pallid body on the stone table, which shook in pain and moaned shrilly. Bolg lifted his whip again and struck, metal spikes dragging through thin, greyed skin. The creature shrieked in agony.

The two Orcs hesitated, until the first Orc pushed forward and cried, _"We have found the pain-bearer! He rides from the green-land and travels east!"_

Bolg froze. Slowly he turned, his whimpering prey forgotten, and his pale eye flashed as he fixed a glare upon the two Orcs. _"Where is he now?"_ he demanded, and the Orc flinched back.

 _"Three weeks past, the wretched pain-bearer was riding toward Moria. He must seek the halls of your great father! Accursed halfling! He rode with a wizard and a dwarf, and more halflings with him! Then he went to the hall of elves, where we could not follow,"_ the Orc simpered.

Bolg sneered at them. He glanced at his victim, then shoved past the smaller Orcs and stalked out of the room, following in the path that the tall, thin man with gleaming eyes of fire had walked. He reached a great room where the form of his master lingered, halting behind him.

 _"Master,"_ Bolg called.

 _"What is it?"_ the tall creature murmured. None of the Orcs knew his true name. They only knew him as the Necromancer, or as the Dark Lord, and addressed him as their master. He was unlike any other creature in the world, save that accursed hobbit, in that he knew the secret language of the Orcs, taught to them ages ago -- by him. He had created _them_.

 _"I want to leave and hunt the one who murdered my father,"_ Bolg said, in a barely civil tone. He was only so respectful -- could not help it, as he hated being someone's slave.

 _"No,"_ the Necromancer replied, not bothering to turn around, and Bolg growled.

 _"I must! He taunts me even from here -- after what he brought into my father's halls, into the mountains of my people, **your** servants! He must die by my hand,"_ Bolg snarled, and the Necromancer turned slowly to face him. 

He stood in the shape of a Man or Elf, but so much taller, broader, with piercing eyes that burned and twisted in blazing red and orange. Just one glance upon his form brought malice and hatred into one's heart, and even from several feet away, Bolg could feel the heat of his body, as if he would erupt in fire. His right hand was completely black.

In this fortress, the Necromancer often wore little more than a tunic and cloak, for all that he was surrounded by the vilest of monsters of Middle Earth. In the blink of an eye, though, he could shift, change, the magic coursing through his body enough to encase him in ancient armor, or to turn him into fire, or into darkness itself. He seemed completely comfortable in his own skin, and his mien was calm and relaxed. This was a creature who knew his own power. This was a creature who held no fear.

 _"It is your wretch that lies in my dungeon, holding the secret of the location of my One. Torture holds no sway over his head, but your command of him loosens his tongue. You will stay here until he tells me where my One is. Then, and only then, may you go on your hunt,"_ the Necromancer said, and Bolg found he could not move, the great aura of fury and enmity leaving him stiff with fear. _"Am I clear?"_

 _"Yes, my master."_ Not even Azog had commanded such power in his bearing. Bolg bowed and backed out of the room. Then he turned sharply and ran through the crumbling fortress, until he came upon the dungeon where the shivering creature lay in its shackles. The other Orcs had disappeared, and Bolg rushed to the wretch and grabbed its face, shaking it until large, pale eyes fixed upon his face.

"WHERE IS IT?" he roared, squeezing until the wretch coughed and hacked, and he loosened his grip. The creature began to laugh, wet, hacking noises that grated on Bolg's ears.

" _Gollum, gollum..._ stolen it was, tossed in a room of gold. Nasty Orcs! Nasty Azog! Gone, gone, my precious is gone," the creature whimpered, and it began to wail, the caterwauling echoing across the fortress.

Bolg stared down at the wretch, the creature he had taken as his servant years ago, and cursed. Undoubtedly it was part of the treasure the Dwarves had taken when they had killed his father. Was it still in those dark caves? Or had it gone back to that damned mountain with the Dwarf King?

 _"Moria,"_ Bolg heard, and he turned to see the Necromancer, Sauron the Great, staring at him from the doorway. Those brilliant eyes burned in the darkness.

_"You will go and find it. Take the Riders with you." And my One will be mine again._

_"Yes, my master." And his head will be mine._

~

Bilbo woke suddenly, his heart beating fast. Yet their camp was peaceful, the night dark with stars, Gandalf snoring against a tree while Bofur stared into the fire. Bilbo did not move, letting the soft noises of his cousins sleeping calm his racing heart. He felt -- disturbed. Wary. What had he been dreaming?

He heard a crow in the distance and shivered. After some time, he fell asleep again and did wake till dawn, when Otho quietly nudged him up. They set on the road again, so close now to the West-gate, only half a day away. Now the air was colder despite the season creeping toward summer, and it filled Bilbo with memories of a dark time. 

Rory had gone quiet some days ago, and no amount of coaxing or teasing would bring him from his silence. Bilbo was quiet as well, but he took charge where he had to, pushing his cousins and pulling Rory along gently. He knew how Rory felt.

It was the same way he felt every time he looked up at the Misty Mountains.

When they reached the West-gate hours later, Bilbo stood and stared at it in silence, clutching Rory's hand and feeling dread creep into his mind. Oh, how much he yearned to turn around and run the other way. For a moment Bilbo felt hysteria seep into his thoughts. Had this all been a wonderful dream? Was he unconscious even now, and would he wake in Azog's clutches?

But then Drogo appeared at his other side, and he heard Otho complaining to Bofur about having to leave the ponies with the Dwarves at the outpost there. Bilbo saw then that there were Dwarves coming out of the West-gate, already opening to Gandalf's pleased look. The Dwarves went to take their cart, promising that their belongings would reach the central cave system via carts and rails.

Bilbo was dubious enough that he forgot, for a few minutes, that he was going back to the place of his imprisonment for seven years.

Soon, though, Bilbo stood still again, watching as Gandalf, Bofur, Rory, Otho, and Drogo walked into the shadows, following the other Dwarves. A shiver went straight up his spine as he felt warmth on his back, and he closed his eyes for a moment, imagining a moment almost eight years ago. But there was no one behind him to see his back, lit by the edge of the sun. There was no one to see him square his shoulders and lift his head in determination. There was no one to watch him take those steps into the darkness he had feared for so long.

There was no one there, yet Bilbo felt eyes on him all the same.

~

_(Excerpt from[Seven Years](http://archiveofourown.org/works/974392), Chapter 1)_

_The mountains in the distance loomed closer, taller, until they blocked the sky and the air grew colder. But instead of climbing the mountains, the Hobbits were led, wretched and shaking, into a small vale that held a sudden dip in the land, and at the bottom of this decline was a deep and sinister cave._

_Oh, Bilbo did not want to go into that cave. He dreaded it -- he dug his heels into the ground and would not move. His cousin and mother followed his example, and other Hobbits as well, and Uncle Gordy stood in front of them when the Orcs turned back to bark at them._

_**" Rûmol!"** one Orc snarled and stalked up to them, but Bilbo spat into his face. The Orc struck him, and he hit the ground violently, and he might have died that day -- had his mother not stepped in front of him and glared fury up at the Orc who had hurt her son._

_"Don't touch him," he heard, Belladonna's once sweet and musical voice cold with hatred, and she might have died, too, if the Orc had not been pulled back by the one who had taken interest in them._

_**" Ulu-izub kulut,"** it snapped at the other, and in an instant it had pulled its great weapon and beheaded the Orc who had attacked them. Bilbo gagged when the Orc head rolled to the ground, retching on the dry grass, and then he was hauled up, their captor clutching him close and growling at the others. **" Nargraurol!"** it shouted, and the other Orcs backed off, hissing but leaving Bilbo and Belladonna alone. Past the crowd around them, Bilbo saw the pale face of his cousin, hazel eyes fastened to his mother and the Orc._

_**" Zaz akashuga kulut thrak Azog-tramurz-û,"** the Orc announced, but Bilbo understood none of it. The darkness of the Orc's tone and the cry the surrounding Orcs made was enough to make him shiver with fear._

_The Orc yanked him up, and he cried out as his shoulder was jostled. He must have injured it in his fall -- but there was nothing for it, as the Orcs were already moving forward, and he was being dragged along with his mother._

_"No!" Bilbo cried, and he pulled back against the rope. He would not go into that dark place! He would not go into that terrible abyss! He would rather die -- but then the Orc grabbed his mother and squeezed her until she screamed, and Bilbo reacted without thinking, rushing forward to her side. The Orc laughed and let go, and Bilbo was left shaking, enraged by the easy manipulation, and terrified for his mother, who was shivering from the shock._

_"I'm sorry, mama," Bilbo whispered, but Belladonna only shook her head._

_"You have nothing to be sorry for, dear heart. Whatever happens after this, we will be brave," she said clearly, her strong voice carrying above the growls and grunts of the Orcs, and the Hobbits around her straightened, taking her words into their hearts and believing them. Then she squared her shoulders and strode forward into the darkness, and the Hobbits followed her, tears trickling over dirty cheeks at the inevitability of their doom._

_Bilbo stared at the line of her back, lit by the edge of the sun, until shadow was cast over them all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies! Thank you so much for your patience and understanding about the long wait! The long and short of it is, I've been really busy/tired/overwhelmed with a new job/jury duty/illness/my cat disappearing/holidays, and I'm sorry for making you wait.
> 
> Long and heartfelt thanks to my darling betas, eaivalefay and tribumvirate.
> 
> BIG NEWS. As you may have noticed, there are a few changes to the story. _Pain-Bearer_ , _Seven Years_ , and all of their associated stories are now contained within one series, _[All That Stands Between Us](http://archiveofourown.org/series/57224)_. Every story that I post in the PB universe will be added to this series. It is FAR FROM COMPLETE, but I hope you guys enjoy it just the same.  <3
> 
> Also! As some of you have certainly noticed, I posted the first chapter of _[Seven Years](http://archiveofourown.org/works/974392)_ a while ago. I, of course, meant to post more of it forever ago, but busy life and all. It will be updated very soon with Chapter 2! There will be nine chapters, and it will be long, intense, and harsh. READ ALL THE WARNINGS. _Seven Years_ is not required reading for the next few chapters of _Pain-Bearer_ , but it will greatly enrich the story all the same.
> 
> I have also posted _[All That Glitters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1032288/chapters/2056832)_ , for those who wanted to read it! <3


	29. A letter from the soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Thoughts of suicide, panic attack.

Eight years ago, Bilbo had walked a path through these mountains in two days of darkness. Two days of fear, of never-ending shadow, of absolute terror at what would befall him, his mother, and his family. The caves had echoed with sinister sounds, Orc drums in the distance and snarls as the monsters had roamed in the darkness, leaving the Hobbits shaking with utter despair.

Now the halls were brightly lit with torches, and a proper road could be seen, with resting points in different caves along the way. There were clear pools of water that Bilbo had never known existed, deep and dark and silent in the caves. The caves were quiet, but not unnaturally so; Bilbo heard dripping, rocks falling, the murmur of voices as Dwarves approached.

They were not the only company on the road through the Misty Mountains. Other Dwarves passed them, heading to Ered Luin to gather their families or down south with trade in mind. Bofur told them that long ago, this road had bustled with activity, as evidenced by the caves that still held ancient plumbing and rooms, where they rested during the night. The Dwarves had cleaned these rooms and filled them with beds, tables, and chairs, a kindness for weary travelers to take their rest.

The entire trip felt surreal to Bilbo. He barely slept. He may have shut his eyes to rest for a handful of minutes. Everywhere he looked, he expected to see Azog's face. What had he been thinking, coming back to this place? For all that the Dwarves kept these mountains well-guarded now, Bilbo was afraid -- and he worried, deeply, for the Hobbits who would follow, who would take one look at these mountains and start crying.

Yet his second journey into the depths of Moria was completely unlike his first. Despite his fears, Bilbo saw no Orcs. He heard no war drums. He heard none of the dark speech he despised. He saw only Dwarves, brightly lit tunnels, clean water, and the faces of his cousins, smiling despite the tense air. Bofur seemed more cheerful as they saw more signs of cleaning and work done, more evidence that these were no longer caves of Orcs, but halls of Dwarves.

All of the company save Bilbo had been given tokens as they had entered through the West-gate. The service guard had attempted to give one to Bilbo, too, but then Bofur had leaned over and whispered, "Pull out the key Thorin gave you, Bilbo," and the guard's eyes had widened with awe. Then he had hurried to give all of Bilbo's companions completely different tokens than before, gold instead of silver, twisted bits of metal that hunt on leather thongs.

 _Khuzdibâh_ , the guard had whispered. So Bilbo had left the necklace hanging on his chest, though it felt strange, as he had long kept it hidden. Not out of shame, but just from a feeling -- that he needed to keep his necklace safe.

He still felt odd, knowing that everyone could see Thorin's token and his rings, especially his magic ring. He still had not yet asked Gandalf about it. He had thought to look it up in Lord Elrond's library at one point, but the notion had fallen to the back of his mind, until he had only remembered after they had already left Rivendell. To forget something so important -- _magic_ \-- left Bilbo unsettled. Yet he was afraid to ask Gandalf, in case Gandalf thought the ring was too powerful for Bilbo's hands. It was _his_. He did not want to give it up.

Everyone was too interested in Thorin's key to notice the rings, anyway.

Rory looked just as bewildered as Bilbo felt. His younger cousin had still not spoken, but Bilbo stayed near him, knowing that he was tense. It eased his mind, too, to be close to Rory, who had known that same journey eight years ago.

Neither Bilbo nor Rory slept, that first night in Moria. They did not dare. Instead, Bilbo convinced Gandalf and Bofur both to let them keep watch, and after much grumbling and many concerned looks, the Dwarf and Wizard rested while Bilbo and Rory stayed awake together. They sat in silence, clutching each other's hands tightly, curled up together in one of the large chairs in one of the resting halls.

Only once did Rory break his silence. "It's so quiet," he murmured, and Bilbo nodded, Rory's curls brushing his cheek. In Azog's halls, there had always been noise; Orc drums and music, the clanging of iron and anvil, the snarls of Orcs fighting, the thuds of Trolls below -- it had been _loud_ , living in that place. They had not realized until after returning home how strange it was to sleep without that constant racket.

The serene quiet disturbed them.

So Bilbo began to hum under his breath, melodies that he had heard from their mothers long ago, back when they were both mere fauntlings and the darkness held no worse than an unlit candle; songs that Great Aunt Adaldrida had sung to them in the days when there was no hope; and a lullaby that a Dwarf with blue, blue eyes had sung to him months ago.

"We'll make it through, won't we? We'll be okay, right?" Rory whispered, turning his face from Bilbo's shirt.

 _Oh, Rory._ "We will be happy again," he promised softly.

Rory's shoulders jolted, and Bilbo felt a sob against his neck. He pulled Rory closer, tucking his cousin's face against his chest, wrapping himself around Rory so tightly that he felt every hiccup, every tremble, every flinch as Rory tried to keep his crying quiet. Just as he had countless times before with so many Hobbits, Bilbo let Rory cry his pain away, staring past his cousin's curls into the flickering shadows. He did not see Otho watching them, eyes dark in the quiet, while Drogo slumbered away.

He would not let Rory, or any of his precious family, be hurt by this place ever again.

~

The walk into Khazad-dûm left Bilbo speechless for some time. Rory was just as stunned, while Drogo and Otho boggled at the halls around them, and Bofur walked with a skip to his gait. Gandalf watched them all but said little, and Bilbo tried to contain his shock.

There was not a single hint of Azog's clan left. Not a single Orc shanty, nor any of the wooden pathways and rope ladders, nor any weapons of Orkish make. The halls smelled _clean_ , of pine, fire, and metal. The walls gleamed beneath the lantern light, and Bilbo's mouth was open as he looked up, seeing details in the stone that he had never known existed. He saw statues that had been covered by Orc huts, rooms that were opened wide and lit warmly, great lanterns that shone with different colors of light, and thick tapestries covering the walls, depicting great Dwarves of old. These were not Azog's halls; they were the halls of Dwarves.

In Azog's throne room, Bilbo was startled to see that the throne was still there, but it was empty of any person, holding instead a long silken cloth with an ancient crown. He looked to its side, expecting a small cushion, and he was shocked further when he did not see it. His fists clenched at his sides, but he looked away, focusing on the Dwarf that was rising from the long table that sat before the throne, with seven chairs stretched around it.

Balin, Lord of Moria.

"Welcome to the halls of Khazad-dûm!" Balin announced, smile stretching across his face. He was cheerier than Bilbo remembered, and he greeted Gandalf and Bofur with familiarity as he reached them. Then Balin turned to Bilbo and his cousins, and he bowed low, gaze fixing upon the key that hung on Bilbo's chest. The Dwarf's eyebrows creased slightly, but smoothed soon enough. Bilbo started, bowing in return.

"And greetings to you, _khuzdibâh_ Bilbo Baggins. Be welcome in these halls, that belong to Dwarves once again by your heroic deeds," Balin said, keen eyes resting on Bilbo's face. He nodded, tense but determined to act normal.

"Thank you for your gracious welcome, Lord Balin," Bilbo replied as Balin straightened. "These are my cousins, Rorimac Brandybuck, Otho Sackville-Baggins, and Drogo Baggins. They are under my care while we travel." His cousins all bowed awkwardly.

"Good to meet you, lads! I hope your journey was safe?" Balin asked, smiling at them.

Beside him, Bofur winced. "About that, Lord Balin -- and congratulations on your lordship! I knew you were perfect for the job --"

Balin waved a hand. "Bofur, we have known each other since you were a lad. You may all call me Balin, please," he said, looking a bit dismayed. Bilbo smiled a bit, but his gaze kept falling past the older Dwarf to the throne beyond. He kept expecting a familiar voice to call for him.

"Yes, er, sorry, Balin. There were a few complications," Bofur hedged, large hands waving around, and Balin raised his thick white eyebrows.

"What sort of complications?" Balin asked, but Bofur only glanced at Bilbo, who ignored them both. He was sure that Bofur had plenty to tell his fellow Dwarves, and he wished to retire to a bed, or an inn if there was one, or _something_ that was far away from this wretched room.

Else he be tempted to go to the place he knew most, to see what remained of the life he had destroyed.

"Well, I am sure all of you are very tired. But be welcome in Khazad-dûm! Your rooms have already been prepared for you, and supper will be set up soon. Join me for breakfast in the morning, and we can discuss everything then," Balin said, and he turned to call for another Dwarf, who came up silently beside them. "This is Benri, your guide. He will take you to your rooms. Have a restful sleep!"

Then they were being shuffled out of the room, and if Bilbo's gaze skirted a spot on the floor that had once held a familiar stain but was long cleaned away, he made sure no one noticed. No one but Rory would understand, anyway.

~

Benri led them to a long, brightly lit hallway with beautiful angular designs in the walls, lined with doors with different colored gems in the center of each doorway. Bofur seemed jittery as they walked along the hallway, which was much more ornate than other hallways, and was one that Bilbo had never seen before. This hall had been in a part of Azog's halls that he had rarely visited, and now he saw why; it was bedrooms and suites, that surely Azog would have cared little for.

The doors were made of wood and thus could be opened normally, so Bilbo did not pay much attention as the Dwarf pointed to each door and gave his cousins their pick of the rooms. Gandalf retired at the beginning of the hall, but Rory, Otho, and Drogo hesitated, obviously waiting for Bilbo to make his choice.

"Mister Baggins has been given this room," their guide said, leading the small group to the last door, which was larger than the others and held three gems instead of one in its wooden frame. The gems were blue, and they caught Bilbo's attention. Deep, dark blue that glistened in the firelight; he thought of blue, blue eyes and shivered.

The guide opened the door, and when no one else stepped forward, Bilbo sighed and walked into the room. Its interior surprised him; brightly lit as the hall was, with simple tapestries on the walls to keep the room insulated. There was a fireplace and a long sofa with pillows, and a large Dwarf bed in the center of the room, piled with furs and blankets, with a long rug curving around the wooden frame. Bilbo could smell the pine and straw from the new furniture, and the strange scent helped him relax somewhat. He set his bag down by the door.

"Thank you," Bilbo said quietly, and Benri walked over to a door in the corner of the room. Bilbo noticed that his cousins had turned away to argue, Rory through stilted motions, over which room they wanted, so he followed the Dwarf, Bofur trudging alongside him. Bofur's eyes had widened, but when Bilbo shot him a curious glance, Bofur shook his head and said nothing.

"This door leads to your bathing quarters. We have upgraded the plumbing to a very efficient model, so you and your company may enjoy hot water at any time. Do you know how to work the baths? They can be a bit tricky," the guide said, starting to show them how to work the knobs, and Bilbo gave him a flat look.

"I did live here for seven years," Bilbo said shortly, glancing past the Dwarf into the washroom, which looked, hauntingly, like the bath in Azog's room. He turned away, ignoring the Dwarf's wide-eyed look and Bofur's sharp intake of breath, and looked across the room at the bed. The furs reminded him, for a terrible moment, of his cushion from Azog's room -- but then he looked closer, and he thought that they were more familiar than that.

"Did someone sleep here before me?" Bilbo asked, and Benri began to stammer.

"I, I am not sure if I'm allowed to say --"

"Tell him," Bofur growled, and the Dwarf guide faltered.

"King Thorin stayed the winter in this room," the guide said in a stiff voice, and Bilbo breathed in sharply. Then he felt his face warm abruptly, realizing that he _had_ recognized those furs -- they had been _Thorin's_.

Bofur seemed to recognize that Bilbo needed a moment to himself, and he hustled the guide out of the room, while Bilbo tried to calm down. It was almost too much -- being in this place again, with so many memories of Azog, and yet at every turn, in every room, there was some remnant of Thorin, chasing away the horror.

He took a deep breath, then released it slowly. When he had some control of himself, he walked to the doorway where the guide and Bofur waited, Bofur glaring silently at the guide. Bofur looked over at him and nodded, and Bilbo looked past him to see three of the doors closest to him open. He heard his cousins' voices inside, and he let out a sigh.

The guide cleared his throat, still cowed by Bofur's frown, but determined to continue his duties. "Lord Balin has invited you and your company to breakfast with him in the morning. As the hour is late, supper will be sent up shortly. Please do not hesitate to ask if you need anything." Then the guide fled, under Bofur's glare.

"I'll talk to Balin --"

"No, it's alright," Bilbo said, suddenly feeling very tired. "I think we should all take a rest. He said supper is on the way, and it's been a long day, and... I would like to be alone tonight, Bofur. I'm sorry."

Bofur looked over at him with concerned eyes that Bilbo would not meet. He knew Bofur meant well, but he was quickly becoming overwhelmed. After a moment, Bofur nodded. "Ye don't have to apologize, Bilbo," he said gruffly, reaching up to grip Bilbo's shoulder. "I get it. You go rest, and I'll manage the lads from here."

Bilbo gave him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you. If they need anything..."

Bofur smiled back at him. "I think I can handle three Hobbit lads for a night. Go on, we'll be fine. We'll see you in the morning."

Bofur left the room, closing the door behind him, and Bilbo let out a deep sigh, reaching up to rub at his eyes. Then he walked over to the bed and fell, face-forward, into the pile of furs, frustration welling up in his throat. He took a deep breath -- and his breath caught.

_Thorin._

The bed smelled like safety. Like stone and fire, cloves and pine, and a faint musk that he remembered. When he had stayed in Thorin's tent, it had been beneath his notice, but he remembered it all the same. When Thorin had hugged him, so gently, Bilbo had smelled it but never realized what it was. When they had spoken that last morning and he had held Thorin's hands, Bilbo had smelled it, again -- and not once had he thought, _This is Thorin's smell._

Now Bilbo realized what it was, and it made him feel _safe_.

He pulled himself completely onto the bed and burrowed into the furs and blankets, melting into the soft fabrics. Long moments passed, and Bilbo relaxed, slowly, as he remembered those days when he had slept in Thorin's tent and experienced his first nights of freedom. Thorin, grumbling late in the evening over his maps, while his guards had tried to cajole him into sleeping. The sounds of humming late at night, deep in his dreams, when Bilbo had tossed under flashing nightmares of his past.

He breathed in that heady combination of soothing scents again, and sighed. Then he breathed it in again, and again, until his body was completely relaxed. The candles burned in glass lanterns on the walls, flickering as the wax melted. He could hear distant clangs, water dripping in pipes, murmuring beyond the walls; the fire crackling in the hearth. But mostly, it was quiet, and Bilbo could hear more than anything the sound of his own heartbeat.

He began to hum, and he did not quite remember all the notes, but it came to him easily just the same. He fell asleep to a dream of blue, blue eyes and fingers running through his curls.

~

When Bilbo woke, hours had passed. The fire was low, and Bilbo blinked in the dim light, hardly recognizing where he was. He breathed in the scent in the blankets and mumbled, "Thorin?" sitting up as the thick fur fell off his body. Then he realized that he was not in Thorin's tent, but in a room in Moria rebuilt.

At least no one was around to hear his slip of the tongue.

Bilbo crawled out of bed and went to tend to the fire, working until it was roaring again, and then he looked around, rubbing his arms and shivering. He was still in his travel clothes, and his bag remained by the door. There was a silver tray by the door, covered, and Bilbo went to investigate it. He found a plate of familiar Dwarven fare, which made him smile, remembering the heavy meals he had eaten with Bofur and Bifur.

He ignored the meal for now, though, determined that after a week of travel, he would have a proper bath.

Bilbo took the time to fetch clean clothes and his bathing supplies from his pack. Then he went to the bath, carrying a candle, and he had to stand on a small ledge to reach the lantern.

Then he looked around the room, and what he saw made him tense up with resentment.

The room was not exactly like the bath in Azog's quarters, but it was close enough. The room was clean, at least, and the tiles were shining in the faintly green light of the lantern. The basin of the bath was sunken in the floor, and Bilbo saw a mosaic at the bottom, of a star above an axe. Very Dwarven, and so very like his master's bath. It left Bilbo feeling nervous and unprepared for this moment.

Azog had allowed him to bathe, but never with soap, and only with cold water. There was no heated water in Azog's halls, but what was heated for food and craft. Azog himself had kept his body clean, and he had expected the same of his slave, for reasons Bilbo had never quite understood. He had suspected, though, that Azog's desire for cleanliness had more to do with scent and status than any true desire to be clean.

So much of Orc culture had been tied to how impressive an Orc looked. Azog, with his pale, greyish-white skin, had stood out no matter where he went in any crowd of Orcs, who had any combination of paints, tars, tattoos, scars, mud, blood, and dirt on their bodies, to show off their prowess. In the darkness of the caves, Azog's implicit power had been obvious with the way he stood above other Orcs. Bilbo had always suspected that Azog had kept himself clean so that his pale skin would shine in the dark caves -- so no other Orc would ever mistake him as average.

Azog had hated when Bilbo smelled of anyone other than him. He had allowed the Hobbits' scents, but he preferred Bilbo to smell only like Azog. If Bilbo had been out of the room for a while, Azog would force him to sleep in his bed, or make him wash himself, so that he smelled 'right' again. And the times in that bath, that he had stared into the dark water and thought, _wouldn't it be easy_ \--

With a sudden fury, Bilbo threw his bath bag down and fled the washroom, crouching down in the corner by the bed and covering his face. He felt panic seizing his mind, and he thought, _I can't do this, I can't, I can't,_ until his vision grew black at the edges.

He realized he could not breathe. 

He tried to inhale, but his chest would not move. His throat was closed. He grabbed for the wall and fell to the side, bumping his head against the bed, and he reached up blindly, trying to pull himself up. Instead his hands snagged one of the furs, dragging it off the bed, and it covered Bilbo completely, leaving him in complete darkness -- surrounded by Thorin's scent.

He gasped in air, so sharp it burned, and the numb sensation in the back of his mind began to fade. He inhaled through the squeeze in his throat, and again, until the pain began to recede and he no longer saw stars. He could breathe again. He was alright. He was safe. No one could hurt him here. _No one would hurt him ever again._

Thorin had promised him that he would be safe.

But was he safe here? Was he safe anywhere? Here he was, back in Azog's halls, where his master's ghost might remain, waiting to haunt him. If he suspected right, Bolg had issued a warrant for his head, much like Azog had for Thorin years ago. He had no idea what he would find east of the Misty Mountains, and he feared that unknown place. He could not be safe anywhere, not truly, no matter what Thorin had promised.

He reached up to grasp the key Thorin had given him, pulling on it so hard it dug into the back of his neck. His fingers brushed the rings, and Bilbo shuddered, thinking of putting on his gold ring and vanishing forever, forgetting about his cousins and promises and simply disappearing into the darkness. How he _longed_ for peace from the wretchedness of his life. How he craved oblivion at night, how _hard_ it was to continue. What was the point? 

He gripped the ring tightly. _...burzum ishi..._

Even if he was safe, even if Azog was gone and he was no longer trapped -- what was there for him? All of his worthless titles, all of his memories that _hurt_ so much -- he would give it all away, he would disappear into this darkness and do what he had wanted to do for seven years. It would be so easy. Fitting, even, if he went down into the tunnels and found the black mushrooms again. He would deserve it, for everything he had done to his people, to his family, to everyone who had suffered, who had only suffered _more_ because of him --

... _thrakatulûk_...

But he had promised.

_"You must be strong, dear heart. You must go on."_

He had _promised_.

_"Accept my token, and come to me later in life."_

_"You be safe out there, Bilbo Baggins, you hear me?"_

_"I shall visit, as will you."_

_"We will be happy again."_

So many promises, all of them that kept Bilbo alive, all of them for his family and friends, all of them _for Bilbo._ How could he give them up? How could he let go of such precious people?

He could not give up. He had promised.

The black panic fell away from his thoughts, and he could think clearly again. Bilbo inhaled slowly, and he caught Thorin's scent again, grounding him. He pushed the blanket off and sat up, letting go of his necklace with a sigh. As the blanket fell to his hips, he caught a whiff of his own odor, and he made a face. Then he glanced at the washroom, daunted by the thought of another panic attack.

But he was so dirty, and if nothing else -- it would be unlike every bath he had taken in this place. It would be hot, with soap and every other luxury he had taken to using during his baths after returning to the Shire. Erestor had even given him some amazing herbed soaps, and Bilbo could not wait to try them.

So he would bathe, and he would _not panic_. Because he would not let Azog take this from him, too.

It was with shaking hands that Bilbo turned the knobs over the bath and flicked up a small lever, watching as hot water began to pour out of a carved spout in the wall. He watched the steam rise in the air, and his gaze focused on a small indented shelf in the wall, where several bottles stood. Curious, he pulled a few down and looked at them.

The bottles, in clear glass, held thick, viscous liquids inside them. One he recognized as oil, but the others held small bubbles suspended in the substances. One of them looked gritty, more like a paste than a liquid. Each had a certh inlaid upon the glass, but no other ways to identify them. He lifted up one of the bottles and tilted it, watching the thick liquid slide around.

It was then that Bilbo noticed the small card of paper sitting on the shelf behind the bottles. He pulled it down and turned it over, and a shiver ran up his spine when he recognized the handwriting.

> _Bilbo,  
>  These are soaps some of the craftworkers made this winter. They are different from bar soaps. It is best to use them with a cloth. **Rùfshâlh** is a hard soap for after a day of travel or heavy work, and **lavamâl** is simple soap. **Eshùmal** is for Dwarf hair and for your skin afterwards. You may use them as you wish. For a treat, pour a bit of **lavamâl** under the running water.  
>  Thorin_

Bilbo began to smile when he saw his name on the paper, and his panic had simmered and faded by the end of the note. Thorin had written the Khuzdul words in Cirth, which greatly pleased Bilbo, because he remembered enough to read them. He glanced at the bottles again, understanding now what they held, and he picked up the one Thorin had said was soap. Opening it left him breathing in the heavy scent of cloves and chamomile. The same scent from Thorin's blankets. 

He hesitated guiltily, glancing at the bars of soap Erestor had given him. He could use both, couldn't he? Then he tilted the bottle toward the small fountain of water, spilling some into it as Thorin had said, and his eyes widened with surprise as bubbles began to fill the tub.

He laughed and set the bottles down, kneeling by the tub and reaching out to pick up a handful of bubbles. How delightful! And the smell of them -- like tea in the winter, or a rich cake. He would have to thank Thorin, perhaps in a letter.

He took off his dirty clothes and left them in a basket by the door, then returned to the tub and switched off the water. He could feel the steam warming the room, and the thick bubbles now towered above the floor. His anxiety had receded completely to the back of his mind; this was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

Bilbo slid one foot into the water and wriggled gleefully at the heat. Then he stepped down into the basin, laughing as the bubbles surrounded him. What a treat, indeed!

~

_I wonder if Bilbo found my notes,_ Thorin thought, leaning back into the hot, bubbly water of his bath. _Did he make it to Balin safely?_ He sunk into the water, scrubbing at his long hair and surfacing with a deep groan. Even in these moments of privacy, he worried for the Hobbit he had left behind.

One of his greatest joys upon returning home was to have a proper washroom again. Oh, how he had missed his bathtub, and all of the other comforts of his home. Though they had fixed the plumbing and had made sturdy furniture for Khazad-dûm, his washroom there had not been nearly as good as home.

Thorin's welcome home had been grandiose, with a great feast that had gone on for hours. He still had a headache from the wine and ale he had drunk. He had been visited by nearly the entire kingdom, and no one had been happier than his siblings and nephews. And oh, how he was happy to see them, too. Everything he had done, every moment of his war march, had been for them, and for his people.

At the end, though, it had also been for a certain Hobbit. Of whom Thorin thought often. He had asked after any letters sent to him, but none had been from Bilbo. It worried him -- had Bilbo gotten his letter? Had he decided to stay in the Shire, or was he simply traveling later in the summer? Or... was he hurt, or lost, or worse -- and Thorin could not handle the thought of Bilbo giving in to his pain. But surely Bofur would have sent word, if anything was wrong?

Unless Bofur, too, had fallen -- _no._ They were fine. He was over-worrying.

Thorin did wonder how Bilbo would react to the room. He had hidden the letter on the shelves, where surely Bilbo would find it, drawn to books as he was. After his letter, he had written a couple of notes, to explain various things to Bilbo, as he had thought of them later -- such as about Dwarven shampoos and soaps, and of the reconstructed library, and other things.

Tomorrow, he would speak with his family and advisors about the plans for Khazad-dûm, and about everything that he had missed in his kingdom in the eight years he had been gone. He would tell them everything of his march, and he would spend the day with his nephews, and with Dwalin, and with his citizens. He was home, and he was glad.

He would also speak with Frerin and Dís about setting up a second Ravenhill outside the East-gate. They had left a few trained ravens with the outpost there, but it was not like Ravenhill, and surely both of his siblings would agree that it was important to send more to stay there, as well as to Beorn.

It had little to do with their new neighbors, nor with a certain Hobbit, who would certainly be writing to him. Thorin simply wanted to make things easier for everybody involved, especially if rebuilding Khazad-dûm was to go as planned.

_I hope he got my letter._

~

When his bath was done and Bilbo had dressed in soft, clean clothes, he explored the room, bolstered by the note Thorin had left in the bath. If Thorin had left him such a note, perhaps there was also a letter? But he did not find anything on the desk, nor near the bed, and he tried to hold off his disappointment.

The room smelled of pine and cloves, even more so now after his bath. Bilbo saw now that there was a bookshelf against one wall, originally part of the stone, but with new shelves of wood. He was drawn to the bookshelf immediately, finding several tomes with rune-speak on them, and even one or two in Westron. There was a map folded up, and opening it, Bilbo found that it was the same map he had seen on Thorin's table, back in his tent so many months ago. His gaze went unerringly to the black circle around the Shire, a small sigh escaping him as he was overcome for a moment.

Soon, though, his gaze wandered to the eastern side of the map, trailing his fingers over the different points he thought he could recognize. There was Erebor, up above the great forests of Greenwood -- though on this map, it said 'Mirkwood' -- and right under it Dale and other small towns. There was a river that went off into the east, into lands Bilbo had never known about. He wondered what else lay beyond the Misty Mountains.

He ran his finger down lower, over the mountains of Mirkwood, to a small point that simply said, _Beorn._ Beorn lived near the edge of the mountains, close to the Anduin River and Mirkwood, and Bilbo wondered how close they would end up living to Beorn. He wondered if Beorn was truly as nice as he was kind.

He folded the map up and put it away, pulling out one of the books leaning against the side of the bookcase, and as he did, he realized that something was sitting beside the book, hidden in its shadow.

A jolt ran through his chest.

A scroll, tied with a blue ribbon. Carefully, Bilbo pulled it from its hiding place, his heart beating a bit faster. Then he unfurled it, and the same script from the card in the washroom filled the paper.

> _Khuzdibâh Bilbo Baggins,_
> 
> _I was pleased to find your letter among the parcels Bofur sent to me. Though Bofur and Fortinbras indeed explained the situation sufficiently, I enjoyed your letter and hope that my response may be even a fraction as compelling. As you call me Thorin, so I will also call you Bilbo. It is only right, between us._
> 
> _May this letter find you in good health and spirit. When you read this, you will have traveled long and far from your home, back to the very source of all that changed your life. I hope that Bofur has treated you well, and that you have not gone wanting while under the care of my friend and advisor Balin. If you have need for anything while you stay in Khazad-dûm, do not hesitate to ask Balin for it._
> 
> _Thank you for your letter, and for the trust you left in me. I hope that one day I feel as though I have earned such a precious gift. It will take time, but surely I will prove myself worthy of your regard._
> 
> _Though our acquaintance has been short, I am glad that you wrote to me. Your letter surprised me, for I did not expect such a gift with words from you! But you continue to surprise me, and each time my opinion of you grows._
> 
> _I will always endeavor to answer every question that you ask. I do not claim to be an expert, except perhaps in ruling, but even then, I have advisors and allies to counsel me. In these letters, though, only I will respond, and hopefully my knowledge will be enough to match yours._
> 
> _I am glad for you, that you have found family and have a safe place to live in the Shire. I would enjoy meeting them someday. That they are alive and well is a blessing. I was very interested to realize that you are the Thain's cousin, which was quite the surprise._
> 
> _What happened to your Shire was a tragedy, and I am sorry for my part in not stopping the Defiler from waging war against your kind. If I had only destroyed him sooner. If I had only defeated him in one of our battles before he could hurt you. He was my enemy, and I failed to stop him. I am sorry._
> 
> _You will have a new home, though, and I will do everything in my power to assist you as you travel to the Vale. Everything that I promised you will come true. All of the comforts of the Shire will grow again in the Vale. Your people will take care of that. Let my people take care of yours, so that the future you want may happen._
> 
> _As for your concerns, I believe you will do a fine job in advising your people and handling the political affairs of my side of the world. Your letter conveys your brilliance, though I already knew how intelligent and clever you are. Do not trust the words of elves, though, especially not in dwarf affairs. I will send books to Beorn's home after I reach my kingdom, with information about our side of the world that your books may not contain. I will also send books on herbology and agriculture, and a few other topics besides._
> 
> _Beorn manages his own foodstuffs, and he is good at agriculture. He farms, tends animals, and makes jams, jellies, honeys, and cheeses, that he sends to Dale and Erebor to sell. I think your people and he will get along well, if your shared love of food is any indicator._
> 
> _When you come into Erebor, your token as khuzdibâh will be enough to take you anywhere. Normally visitors require tokens, which you can arrange for at the service station at the entrance of Erebor. There are different types of tokens: merchant, trader, visitor, tourist, diplomat, among other kinds. These tokens are free, but are not to be taken lightly, because each has its own restrictions and rules. For you personally, though, the key I gave you will let you go anywhere in Erebor. No one will question it._
> 
> _If you come -- when you come. I will help you. You need not do this alone. When I reach home, I will begin arrangements for materials, volunteers, and plans for assisting you. We can make contracts, if that is what you prefer, but you will not so easily escape my aid._
> 
> _We may discuss the matter in person, but know that I will help you no matter how you try to stop me. I suspect you will try to stop me a great deal of the time, my friend. It will be an impossible task, and you should give up now. I will not be stopped, not when it comes to helping you. I owe you the world._
> 
> _Everything your Shire had, your Vale will have as well. People create new lives when they step forward and keep walking. Keep looking to tomorrow. The days will pass, and before you realize it, you will be living that new life, better than before, and whole again. Your people will be happy again. They will sing again, songs of glad tidings and good cheer, and everything you told me of before will come true. All the comforts you could ask for, and the joy of a good meal at a warm hearth._
> 
> _I believe that you can do it. I know that you can. You have already faced so much hardship, and now it is the easy part. Though it may seem dark and difficult at times, though you may wish to falter, know that I will be there to help you. Know that any dwarf you meet will help you, and Beorn has promised to be your ally. The elves and men will follow in our steps if they know what is good for them._
> 
> _The Vale will not be the Shire. But it will be a home, and a good one. There will be easy travel between the Vale and Erebor, and trade will blossom between our nations, not to mention the trade you will undoubtedly have with the dwarves who will live in Khazad-dûm._
> 
> _I think you are the only person who could do this. The hobbit I met in those caves was not bowed low, spine broken, from the worst experience any person could suffer. The hobbit I met is brave, clever, strong, resilient, and so much more than he seems._
> 
> _You need not apologize to me. You can tell me anything. I will always listen to you. That is not just because of our promise -- but also because I wish to help you._
> 
> _Tell me. Tell me about your anger, and your fear, and your pain. I will listen._
> 
> _**You are nothing like Azog.** That wretch, that miserable beast, he was a monster, and **you are not.** You suffered abuse worse than anything I have ever seen, and it is your right as a living creature to feel anger at how he treated you. You did not deserve it. You did not deserve any of what happened to you. If you cannot speak to your cousins, or to Bofur, or to anyone else, then tell me. I will tell you, again and again, until you believe it yourself, that you are nothing like him, that how you feel is normal, and that you are not a bad person. You are **good**. Azog was worthless. You are worth far more._
> 
> _Believe me, Bilbo. I have seen the evil of this world, and you are nothing like it. You are so much more._
> 
> _Do not apologize to me for telling me your true thoughts. I wish to know them, and I welcome your letters. Rage at me. Tell me of your happiness. Tell me of your family, of your journey so far, of everything that you think about at night. I wish to be the one who understands you the best. That is the vow between us, and more. I wish to call you my friend, and I wish you to call me yours._
> 
> _What do you wish to know of my family? My parents and grandparents have passed, but I have two siblings, my younger brother Frerin, and our younger sister Dís. She has two sons, Fíli and Kíli, to whom I am close. They are wild children, but they will become strong as they mature. Dwalin and Balin are cousins of mine, and I have more cousins besides, distant relations of past kings' siblings. I have no children of my own, nor do any of my siblings have spouses anymore. I never had one. I have my siblings and my nephews, and that has always been enough._
> 
> _In answer to your other questions, yes, the library in Erebor is vast, so vast that even our greatest scholars have not fully explored it. There are tomes from dwarf clans from all over the world, detailing history that we dare not share with outsiders. There are halls in that library dedicated entirely to forging, craftwork, and silversmithing. There are dozens and dozens of books of poetry, literature, and philosophy. Everything that drives a society lays within the walls of our library. It is the cultural center of the entire East. No other nation can boast of a library as vast and varied as ours. I invite you to explore it at your leisure when you visit me. That includes learning Khuzdul, though you may find that some would restrict that particular knowledge. I wish not to restrict anything from your eyes. You are khuzdibâh. You may read what you wish._
> 
> _I shall pass your word on to Óin, and to the chefs under Balin's watch, so that they may prepare for the hobbits when they come. Seven meals, truly? The table of dwarves must seem small to you in comparison. Perhaps your seven hobbit meals equal about three dwarf meals? We received our supplies from cities of Men, through trade and work. I am sure that Beorn will do well to help you with agriculture for your people, and in the meantime, there will be aid from Erebor and Dale._
> 
> _I hope that you enjoy Khazad-dûm as it should be. We worked all winter to clean and rebuild the city, and I daresay it will be completely unlike the halls you lived in before. If anything makes you uncomfortable, or you foresee some complication that will upset your people, do not hesitate to let Balin know. He will take care of it._
> 
> _I have not forgotten our promise, either. I will wait for you. You may take all the time in the world, kindly child of the west. We will meet again. That is what we promised, after all._
> 
> _What can a simple hobbit do for a king of dwarves? Anything, Bilbo. Anything that you can, as I will do for you. And you are no simple hobbit._
> 
> _What can you do for me? You can come visit me, and you can let me aid your people. You can tell me the darkness that haunts you, so that I may pull it from your mind and give you peace. You can be my friend, so that I may be yours._
> 
> _What you must ask yourself is not what you can do to repay me, but what I must do to repay you, Bilbo Baggins. Azog was threatening to kill me and every last member of my family. He would have brought his armies to my kingdom's door and destroyed every last dwarf in my halls. You saved my family and my people from that monster. You gave up so much, suffered so much, and here you are, begging me to let you repay me? Let me repay you. Let me give back to you what was taken from you. Let me give you the freedom that is rightly yours._
> 
> _Write to me. I will write back. I look forward to your every letter._
> 
> _Sincerely yours,  
>  Thorin_

Bilbo stared down at Thorin's signature, signed thoughtlessly in Westron, then carefully scripted in Cirth. His eyes ran up the page again, reading the words over and over, yet not seeing them, not knowing them anymore but for what he heard in his mind, in Thorin's voice: _You can be my friend, so that I may be yours._

He did not deserve this kindness.

He hiccupped, and he realized that he was sitting on the floor, and that his cheeks were wet. He gasped and wiped at his face, but the tears kept coming, and he covered his eyes, holding the letter away from him.

"Thorin," Bilbo gasped, hiccupping again. "How can you -- idiot dwarf," he whispered, thinking not of the King who had held his sword aloft to save him, but of the grumbling Dwarf who scowled over maps and made his worrying soldiers go on extra rounds to avoid going to bed. Someone whom Bilbo could call _friend_ , though he did not deserve it.

He let out a keening noise and sobbed, dropping the letter and wiping his face with his sweater sleeve. He had thought Thorin would write some advice and little more, but this -- he had not expected such a letter. He had not dared to hope that Thorin would respond to his fears. He had fretted so, after sending his letter off with the Dwarves, about talking so candidly with Thorin, who surely would not have time for him -- but Thorin had made time. He had gifted Bilbo with so much, and he asked for _nothing_ in return. Nothing but Bilbo's company and friendship.

_Rage at me. Tell me of your happiness. Tell me of your family, of your journey so far, of everything that you think about at night. I wish to be the one who understands you the best._

Bilbo reached out to pick up the letter again, reading over the lines of script, tracing his fingers over Thorin's signature. How could Thorin know him so well? But then, he had told so much of himself in his first letter, and they had known each other for a while, though short. It was not fair -- Thorin saw him so easily, yet he underestimated Thorin every time.

Did Thorin rage as he did? Did Thorin fear as he did? Thorin had said so in his letter, but yet he wrote to Bilbo with such kindness. A little imperious, but Bilbo thought that came with the title of being King. Still, so kind, just as he had been in the camp. He wanted to know Thorin more. He wanted to know what Thorin wanted, what Thorin feared, what Thorin thought about at night.

He worried, though. Thorin was... imperious, yes, if not outright manipulative in his eloquence. He recognized the signs. Had he not lived with Azog, the most manipulative and cunning of Orcs? He knew manipulation when he saw it, and Thorin did it thoughtlessly, for what he believed was Bilbo's good.

Bilbo did not let others manipulate him. He called Gandalf on it every time. He allowed Bofur to try to ply him with tales of Erebor, but he stopped at Bofur trying to get him to agree to anything. Rory thought he did not know when his cousin intentionally used those pleading eyes to get his way, and Bilbo allowed it every time, because he loved Rory. No one else, though, was allowed to manipulate him.

Thorin, though...

_We may discuss the matter in person, but know that I will help you no matter how you try to stop me. I suspect you will try to stop me a great deal of the time, my friend. It will be an impossible task, and you should give up now. I will not be stopped, not when it comes to helping you. I owe you the world._

_What can you do for me? You can come visit me, and you can let me aid your people. You can tell me the darkness that haunts you, so that I may pull it from your mind and give you peace. You can be my friend, so that I may be yours._

Thorin's promises, again and again, to help his people -- he was almost insulted that Thorin would not let him take care of his own people! Yet he was touched, and so thankful, for the kindness Thorin was extending. He would have to refuse, though, because he had the money to pay for supplies, and he did not want his people to be indebted to Thorin as he was. Had Bofur not mentioned that Thorin's sister was head of the Guilds and managed international contracts? Perhaps she would see more reason than Thorin, who, for all of his good intentions, did not see the damage he could do with his gifts.

Or perhaps... Thorin _wanted_ the Hobbits indebted to him. _No, he couldn't,_ Bilbo thought. He read those lines again. No, Thorin only wanted to help them. Thorin was grateful for his aid, and the guilt that spilled out through Thorin's words -- surely he did not think to attempt to manipulate an entire people?

Bilbo wondered if he was in over his head, with his friendship with Thorin.

Yet the letter made him happy. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his face, clearing the signs of crying away. Someone who cared for him this deeply, who tried at every turn to make him comfortable -- from putting him in a familiar place to leaving him the makings for a bubble bath -- and Bilbo doubted him?

He felt wretched for thinking so little of Thorin, if only for a moment.

_I will wait for you._

Bilbo's cheeks warmed, and he ran his fingernail across the line, burning the words into his memory. Thorin's promise. He reached up to grip the key Thorin had given him, the weight familiar in his hand. If Thorin wished to be his confidant, then Bilbo would aspire to be the same for Thorin.

He picked himself up from the floor and went to fetch his forgotten dinner, pulling a blanket to the chair by the fire and curling up to read the letter again, a smile playing on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID EVERYONE SEE DESOLATION OF SMAUG? If so, and you're an avid reader of this series, I hope you experienced as many FEELS as I did over certain parts of the movie. Given the new movie canon, a few of the chapters have been adapted and edited. Mainly, Chapter 16, Chapter 25, and Chapter 28, which deal with Bolg, Sauron, and Beorn. The edits primarily affect their physical characteristics.
> 
> If not, GO SEE IT NOW, MY PRECIOUS. <3
> 
> On December 22, this story will be one year old. _One year_ , and 160K words, 60K hits, and countless subscribers and fans. I am simply overwhelmed with your readership. I never thought I would write a story this long or involved, and yes, it is hardly over -- and I am glad for it, because _The Hobbit_ has become an important part of my life. 
> 
> I am grateful to every one of you, for being my friend, for believing in me, for staying with me and reading everything I post, mistakes and all. Someday soon I will write books for publication, and I can only hope that they will be as well received as _Pain-Bearer_ has been. Thank you. Thank you, everyone.
> 
> Epic thanks as well to my beta tribumvirate, and my brand new beta kaavyawriting. *SAUCY WINK*


	30. Memories in the shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Word meanings** :  
>  _Janad_ \-- Open

"Hey, Bofur, can I talk to you for a moment?"

Bofur turned to see Rory waiting for him outside his room. He had just stepped out to meet Balin before breakfast, and he blinked to see Bilbo's cousin standing there. He smiled genially and opened his door again. "Sure, Rory, come on in," Bofur said.

Rory wasted no time in speaking as soon as the door closed. "I need you to distract Bilbo for as long as possible today." The usually cheerful Hobbit, who Bofur had noticed had been rather quiet the past few days, carried a solemn, serious expression, his mouth turned down in a frown.

Bofur raised his eyebrows, curious and a little wary. "Any particular reason? I don't mind watching out for him, but I'd like to know what for," he replied.

Rory nodded, glancing at the doorway as if concerned that Bilbo would open the door right then. "I've got something I have to do, and Bilbo can't know any of it. It would hurt him too much. I have to protect him," Rory said quietly, his gaze fierce, and Bofur straightened slightly.

"It's not dangerous, is it?"

Rory shook his head. "It won't harm anyone. But this is for his peace of mind, and mine... and for many other Hobbits as well. I don't want to explain any more than that. Sorry, Bofur," Rory finished. He met Bofur's gaze again, looking ready to fight him.

Bofur eyed him for a moment, trying to make sense of what Rory was not telling him, but he truly had no idea what Rory intended to do. Rory and Bilbo had spent seven years in this place, so they undoubtedly knew many more of its secrets than Bofur ever would. He did not like the idea of letting a young Hobbit go off on his own, but he could relate strongly to Rory's desire to protect Bilbo. From what, he did not know, but he decided then that he would trust Rory.

"Aye, I'll watch over him, lad. We'll be in a meeting with Balin for much of the morning, so whatever business you're taking care of, best have it done by lunch. Good?" Bofur asked, and he felt his mouth twitch with a bit of pride as Rory nodded and finally cracked a smile.

"Thank you, Bofur. That should be plenty of time," Rory replied, some tension in his gaze easing. They left the room together then, Rory going to wake the boys while Bofur went to knock at Bilbo's door. Whatever old ghosts haunted this place, Bofur would do his best to safeguard his friend's mind and dignity -- even if it meant trusting a young Hobbit who refused to tell Bofur the truth.

As Rory entered Drogo's room, Bofur waited for Bilbo to respond, but there was no answer. Even as Drogo and Otho began to surface, rubbing their eyes and yawning, and Bofur knocked a few more times, their Hobbit did not come to the door. Bofur exchanged glances with Rory, then knocked one more time and said, "Bilbo, I'm coming in!" and pushed the door open.

"Bilbo?" Rory called over Bofur's shoulder, his voice raising until Drogo grabbed his shoulder and shushed him hurriedly.

For Bilbo lay asleep, curled up in the center of the large bed, resting deeply with one hand pushed against several pieces of paper. The tension in Bofur's shoulders loosened when he saw his friend so relaxed. He shot the three boys a look and crept closer to Bilbo, picking up one of the thick furs -- which was rather familiar, though Bofur would contemplate that later -- and laying it over Bilbo's sleeping form. A quick glance at the papers identified Thorin's handwriting, though he did not read any of it.

Then he left, ushering the boys out and down the hall, chuckling as the three Hobbits whispered to each other about their cousin. Even Rory was talking, though he still carried a dark look in his eyes. Bofur would leave him be about it, though -- so long as it did not endanger anyone. Then he would be obligated to take care of it.

Best get the lads fed and talk to Balin, and then see if Bilbo had risen by then. It would be easy to distract him if he was sleepy and hungry. If only Bifur were here to help him; his older cousin had been particularly good at keeping Bilbo's mind off his troubles. Bofur did well enough on his own, though.

Breakfast passed easily enough. Balin inquired after Bilbo, shared glances with Bofur, and nodded agreeably to know that he was still sleeping. The three Hobbit boys boggled over the size of a dwarven tablespread, and Bofur ate with an ease he had not felt in a while. He had enjoyed his time with the Hobbits, but it was good to be amongst his own kin again, especially friends who knew him. He did not miss Balin's effort to catch his gaze and raise his eyebrows, snorting into his cup and winking at his old friend. They had quite a lot to discuss later.

Gandalf had mysteriously disappeared, but Bofur was unbothered by the fact. Wizards would do what they wanted, and who was he to stop Gandalf from roaming about? The halls of Khazad-dûm had been completely renovated, and Bofur could see the efforts of the seven different clans in the remodeling. 

The ancient twisting, mathematical knots of the Longbeards, strong and firm in the walls, surviving even after centuries. The iron-wrought doors of the Ironfists and great metalwork of the Broadbeams, alongside the delicate glass lanterns of the Blacklocks and tapestries of the Stiffbeards. The leatherwork of the Firebeards and the heavy stone furniture of the Stonefoots. All of the aspects of the seven different clans mingled here, making Bofur at once proud of his own clan and interested in the clans that he had seen only little before. What would Khazad-dûm do for them in the future? It had already brought them together, united under Thorin's march. How much more would the Dwarves prosper as a people?

He hoped that it impressed the Hobbits and Gandalf as much as it impressed him. He had never seen so many members of the different clans together, working alongside each other like this. Thorin had done this, and Bofur was all too glad to be his friend.

At last when breakfast was over, Rory caught Bofur's gaze and gave a small nod. Bofur turned to Drogo and Otho and loudly caught them in a discussion on what dwarvish things they might like to try in a community of dwarrows, and when Rory complained of a headache, they only waved him away, enthralled by Bofur's list of things to do in the city. Or so Bofur thought, until he noticed Otho and Drogo exchanging a glance and looking at the door together.

Sharp boys. They were related to Bilbo, after all, but Bofur had not survived sitting for half a dozen of Bombur's children to be done in by a couple of Hobbit lads. He held onto their attention for at least half an hour more, urging them to empty their plates -- which, much to Otho and Drogo's suspicion, continued to be refilled -- until Otho began to moan about his belly and Drogo was giving Bofur dirty looks.

"We should get Bilbo and Rory and go on a walk," Drogo said, stubborn to the core, which sounded agreeable enough to Bofur.

"We'll let Rory have a bit of a kip, but the four of us can go wander. Mayhap visit the kitchen?" Bofur offered teasingly, and Otho gave him a dark look.

Bofur was reminded of those mornings with Bilbo and Bifur, watching Bifur sneak more food onto the Hobbit's plate and stuffing the Hobbit full. Bilbo had been so skinny, back then -- skin and bones, and pain in his eyes and shadows in his every glance. He had flinched at every quick movement, every loud noise, every large Dwarf that walked past him -- and Bofur had been able to do so little to help him. The best he knew, he had learned from his brother; feed the body, and you feed the soul with it.

He felt a sudden protectiveness over these Hobbits, who were moaning and scowling at him, but he caught the smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths and the satisfied looks they gave their plates. Just like Bilbo.

He would make sure that they, and Bilbo, did not go wanting in these halls. It was more than just his duty to Thorin, now; he _cared _about these Hobbits and their ties. He wanted to take care of them. He offered Otho and Drogo a cheerful grin and stood, watching as their expressions brightened.__

__"Let's go get your cousin. There's lots to see in Khazad-dûm, and best to get Bilbo fed before we start!" _Best to keep them all together, too,_ Bofur thought, eyeing Otho and Drogo, clever and sneaky as they were. Bilbo was difficult enough to handle, but he would have his hands full with all three of them. Rory would have been even worse; and it was ironic that Bofur was doing this as a favor to Rory, of all Hobbits._ _

__But first, to wake Bilbo._ _

__Except when Bofur reached their hallway and knocked on the Hobbit's door, Bilbo did not answer. The room was empty, the bed neatly made, the papers rolled up again on the desk._ _

__Bilbo was nowhere to be found._ _

__

____

~

When Bilbo finally dragged himself from his warm bed, his room was nearly dark, but for the tiny glowing lines that ran through the walls in intricate patterns. He blinked in the darkness and sat up, his hands skirting over thick paper, and he smiled as he remembered Thorin's letter.

Then he heard a distant clang, echoing through tunnels far away, and he remembered where he was. His smile dropped from his face.

Azog's halls.

_No._

Balin's halls. The Dwarves' halls. Thorin's halls, even, to an extent -- 

_...completely unlike the halls you lived in before._

That might be true. He would have to walk these halls again, and perhaps they were changed for good. Perhaps the stench of Orcs was truly gone -- and yet a few times Bilbo had caught those old scents, of rotting straw and putrid tar, yesterday. It made him sick.

But this had been his life for seven years. He wanted to see what had changed.

He wanted to see what was the same.

It was easy to get away from his family and the Dwarves. Bofur had taken the boys to breakfast, which meant that Bilbo could get dressed and slip from the room without them ever noticing. Even easier to avoid the various Dwarves walking around the halls, on their way to this mine or that room. He knew of dozens of different hidden walkways and passages that, while they had been cleaned since he was last here, were too far out of the way for most Dwarves to use.

Walking through the halls shocked Bilbo. Nothing of his old home -- for all that he had hated it, Azog's halls _had_ been his home -- remained, but for the walls and a lingering sense of dinginess. All of the filth and mess had been cleared away. He kept running his hands over the walls where patterns he had never known existed were etched into the stone. Once or twice he stopped to look into a room he remembered, glancing in only briefly before the sight disturbed him too much to linger. The Dwarves had done a tremendous job in reclaiming what had once been theirs.

All too soon, Bilbo was standing in front of a familiar stretch of stone, lantern in hand. The hall was empty and dark, clean of the small piles of bones and Warg hair that used to gather at the corners. There was no white Warg skulking in the shadows; Bilbo had checked twice. There were no Orc commanders snarling down the hall at visiting goblins; there were no drums in the distance, or sounds of fighting, or high laughs that grated on the ears. There were no Orcs at all.

The wall before him was cold and silent. Bilbo leaned in, licked his lips, and whispered one of the few words of Khuzdul he knew. _" Janad."_

The wall began to gleam, and then it cracked apart, revealing the door. Bilbo felt eyes on the back of his head and turned around quickly, but instead of the pale, scarred face he feared, he saw no one -- nothing but shadows. Quickly, he twisted his fingers into a small notch in the wall and pulled, disappearing into the room where he had slept for seven years. He turned, and what he saw took his breath away.

The room was completely empty. It was clean of all the furs, weapons, and armor that Azog had kept for himself. The walls shone, tinged black from the fire, and instead of Azog's stench, all Bilbo could smell was smoke. The fire he had started on a whim beneath Thorin's confused gaze had burned everything. Nothing remained of the life he had held in this dark, grimy place. What must have remained from the fire had been cleared from the room, the ashes swept away and the twisted remains of iron shoved into some smith to be forged anew. There was nothing -- no sign that Bilbo had lived here. No sign that Azog had held him captive for seven years. No sign of his innocence lost, nor of the pain he had held close to his heart for so long.

There was nothing.

Bilbo walked through the room, mind numb as he saw it for what it was: an empty room. He stood in the middle and turned around slowly, trying to place where Azog had hung his war armor; tried to point out where the white Warg had slept every night; tried to remember everything.

But the memories had already begun to fade, remnants of a lifetime dulled at the edges. Bilbo could point at the very spot where his cushion had rested, but he could not remember where Azog would leave his mace after a hunt. He had been able to see that life clearly in his mind for so long, and yet now, faced with the reality -- there was _nothing_.

His gaze cut to the washroom door, which had burned away, only the iron hinges left. He crept to the doorway and stared in, seeing that the fire had mostly left this room untouched, though the heat had warped many of the tiles. He shivered when he saw the basin in the floor, remembering cold baths and Azog's sneer. He had to look away as he was reminded of his panic attack from last night.

There was nothing here for him to remember. The space itself had moved on -- perhaps it was time that Bilbo, too, moved on.

He left the washroom and looked up at the wall where a bent hook still sat. His gaze dropped to the expanse of wall beneath it, and there -- he reached out and rubbed away some soot, finding dried blood, cracking rusty red on his fingers.

For a moment, all he could picture was Azog's face before his eyes had closed, anxious and angry with the threat of his enemy invading his halls. So that threat had come true -- and Bilbo had opened his eyes to Thorin Oakenshield, who had saved him and given him his freedom.

Had he suffered for nothing? No -- he had saved his people. If the memories of his life here were no longer heavy on his mind, then he was relieved. He would never forget what Azog had done to him. He would never forget the terrible things he had done to protect his people. He would never, ever forget his pain; he would carry it all his life. But if it hurt a little less -- just that much less, then he was glad for it.

"You're dead," he said to the room, flinching as his voice echoed, but he looked around stubbornly. "You're dead, and I'm alive. This? This is nothing to me now. This holds nothing but ash, and you burned with it. And look --" He pushed up his shirt to reveal his scar, which was softened and faded, AZOG lined in letters that would, someday, be illegible. "Every day I've rubbed this with a salve that makes it disappear. I won't be yours anymore. And someday -- someday I'll be with somebody, and they'll look at me and won't see _your slave._ They'll see me, Bilbo Baggins -- _not your pain-bearer!_ "

Bilbo found himself breathing harshly as his scream faded. His hands had dropped to his sides into fists, and he blinked away tears furiously. There was nothing more for him here. Azog was dead, and Bilbo was doing everything in his power to move on, to be a Hobbit again, to be normal once more. He was nearly there. He was almost whole again.

"No more," Bilbo whispered, and then he left the room, never looking back.

~

Six years ago, Rory had watched, alongside dozens of other Hobbits, as Rollo Boffin took a terrible choice into his own hands with the taste of death. He remembered that time very well; Rollo had gotten very sick, too sick even to work, and Bilbo had sat with him for hours, talking in low tones away from the rest of the Hobbits. Then Bilbo had left, and Rollo had fallen into silence, coughing grey slick into a tattered handkerchief and wiping tears from his sunken cheeks.

Rory had watched him for a time, having known his sons Bosco and Marco Boffin (dead now, along with their mum), who had played with him just as their cousin Lobelia had played with Rory's sister Primula. What troubles had brewed behind Rollo's furrowed brow, Rory would not understand until days later.

He had spied Bilbo and Rollo talking the day before it had happened. He had seen Rollo's face light up with desperation; watched Bilbo's shoulders hunch in with every plea that Rollo gave. Rory knew Rollo had begged -- because he had crept close enough to hear them.

_"You've got to, Bilbo, they're going to throw me to the Trolls. Please, please get them for me, I'll eat a hundred if that's what it takes --"_

_"You're asking me to give you --"_ And Bilbo had looked furtively around, leaving Rory to duck behind one of the pillars. He looked sick, even as Rollo looked determined.

_"My wife and kids are dead, Bilbo, and there's only this maggot-rotten place. I can't stay here anymore. Please. Please, you have to help me."_

_"Rollo, I'm not even sure they're really poisonous. Just because they're cave mushrooms --"_

_"Please, Bilbo! I don't want to be eaten by a Troll! I'm as good as dead, anyway -- I want to die my way, not his way. Not like that! Please, if you've any mercy in you --"_

_"...Alright. Alright, I'll bring them tomorrow. But Rollo, this is -- what if they hurt just as badly --"_ And Rory had watched as Bilbo had bent over, breath seizing in his chest in a sob, grasping Rollo's hand tightly. Rollo had wrapped his hand around the back of Bilbo's head, ignoring his flinch, and pulled him close, whispering so low into Bilbo's ear that Rory had barely heard him.

_"Nothing will hurt as much as what was done to my Druda. It's my choice, Bilbo. Don't be blaming yourself for any of it. It's not a brave thing for me to do -- but it's my choice and you can't take that from me. I won't let you blame yourself for this, alright? You're a good lad, got a good head on your shoulders. You can't know how grateful I am for this. Thank you."_

Bilbo had only been able to nod, looking miserable and so very sad. _"Okay. They're in a cave off from the big waterfall, so I've got to leave now, if I'm to return before he wants me back. I'll go now."_

 _"Thank you, Bilbo my lad. Thank you for this."_ Rory had ducked away again when the two Hobbits separated, his heart beating fast in his chest as the weight of their conversation settled in his mind. 

And Bilbo had gone away, bringing Rollo something black and slimy hours later. Rollo had kept away from the rest of them that night, but Rory had watched him after the fires had gone low, and he had watched Rollo eat the black substance when the rest had fallen asleep. Then he had laid down, and Rory had watched him, until he too had fallen asleep.

Rory had woken hours later as normal, to the morning drums and grunts of Orcs outside. Rollo Boffin had not. Lips black and his body empty of life -- Rollo had died in his sleep.

Black mushrooms were the cause, as Bilbo had miserably told them later, face pale beneath the bruises from Azog's beating. Black mushrooms that grew on the side of a cave that Bilbo had found, that he had mentioned to Rollo Boffin, and that Rollo had begged for. They were as poisonous as they looked, but Bilbo would tell them nothing more. Even months and years later, when Hobbits who had given up hope begged for the mushrooms, Bilbo would not tell a soul where to find them.

Except Rory already knew exactly where the mushrooms were. He had never seen them himself, but there was only one great waterfall in Moria, and only a few caves around it besides. So when Rory snuck away from Bofur, Drogo, and Otho, he quickly gathered supplies and went to the one place Bilbo would never, ever want him to go.

The cave was easy to find. The waterfall, once heavy but now a trickle, came out of the mouth of a massive statue of an ancient Dwarf, and there, behind the left elbow of the statue -- a cave hidden from prying eyes. Orcs would hardly care for it, given the narrow ledge and the fact that it only went back maybe forty feet. Half the floor was sunken in and ridged as if water had once drained there, and all along the back wall -- mushrooms, thick and black and glistening in the light from Rory's lantern.

Grimly, he set his lantern down and surveyed the cave, wondering how best to carry out his plan. The smoke would catch everyone's attention, but he did not want to touch the things, and if he dropped them down the crevice, they might poison the water supply. The cave had no other exit, so he would have to set the fire and leave quickly to avoid the fumes -- and then Rory realized that this might be a bit harder than he had thought. What if the smoke was poisonous too? They had never burned the mushrooms before. What if he poisoned everyone?

Determined, Rory sat down cross-legged and stared at the wall, thinking hard on what he should do.

"Rory?"

With a cry of surprise, Rory whirled around, only to find Bilbo standing a few paces behind him, staring at him in horrified shock. Rory stared back, open-mouthed, and silently cursed Bofur for failing to keep Bilbo distracted. Bilbo looked past him at the cave wall; then, to Rory's dismay, his gaze dropped to the supplies on the ground: flint, tinder, oil, and a shovel.

"What are you doing here?" Bilbo asked slowly, his voice high and trembling, as his eyes flashed with anger. Rory closed his eyes, cursed to himself, and stood to face his cousin.

~

Bofur looked around him in dismay. Five minutes ago, he had been leading Otho and Drogo through one of the old forges, pointing out old bits of knowledge to distract them. Three minutes ago, he himself had been distracted by an old friend coming up to greet him, and one minute ago, he had noticed that the two Hobbits were gone.

What was he going to do? Here he had promised to keep an eye on four Hobbits, and all of them were gone!

~

"Bilbo, it's not what it looks like. Okay, well, it's exactly --"

"What it looks like," Bilbo said slowly, staring down at the tools needed to light a fire, "is that you are being very foolish." He did not need to look at Rory to know the shame on his cousin's face, coupled with determination. Rory opened his mouth to speak again, but Bilbo held up a hand and pointed to the cave entrance. "Rorimac Brandybuck," he seethed, voice low but loud enough to echo through the cave, "Get out of here _right now_. Or so help me --"

Rory was scrambling toward the entrance even before Bilbo had finished speaking, but he stopped suddenly, turning to face Bilbo and frowning. "No, I won't! How did you even get here? I thought you were with Bofur!"

Bilbo scowled at him, taking a few steps forward, but Rory did not budge. "I haven't even seen Bofur today! What on the mother's green earth are you thinking? You can't burn these!" Bilbo paced further into the cave, turning to fix Rory with another glare as he stopped between his cousin and the wall of mushrooms, leaning down to gather the supplies Rory had brought.

Hands caught his wrists, and Bilbo flinched, looking up into Rory's face, and whatever expression he wore made Rory let go of him quickly. Instead Rory grabbed at the flint and oil, looking angry, but Bilbo was _furious_. "Bilbo, at least let me explain!"

"I don't want to hear it," Bilbo said shortly, snatching the flint from beneath Rory's fingers. "Did your parents raise you with cotton between your ears? You can't burn anything in a cave with only one exit, and you won't be able to burn them anyway -- they're wet! It'll take more than one empty-headed fauntling to deal with these things, and I won't have you do anything near them anyway! Get out! Or else I'll turn you over my knee like Aunt Mirabella would!"

Rory drew back suddenly, his mouth falling open as he stared at Bilbo. "I'm only a few years younger than you!"

Bilbo stood up and grabbed Rory's elbow, pulling him toward the exit, the heat in his chest leaving him shaking. "You are still under my care, and you are being _phenomenally stupid_. Let's go, just --" But he stopped suddenly at the cave entrance, hearing a familiar voice outside.

"Bilbo?"

" _Shh!_ It's Otho and Drogo!" Bilbo hissed, and Rory groaned.

"I told Bofur to keep them busy!"

" _Bofur_ \-- Rory, you can't leave a Dwarf to watch over a pair of Hobbit boys! They're sneaky and wily, and you can't put anything past them. You're the prime example of that!"

"If you would just _let me explain_ \--"

"Shh, they're coming!"

On the walkway that curved around the statue, Otho and Drogo were arguing as they hurried along, casting their gazes about searchingly. Bilbo ducked back into the cave and pushed Rory behind him, not wanting his cousins to see them -- not wanting his cousins _anywhere near_ this place.

"I told you we should have gone the other way!"

"Like your sense of direction is any better than mine down here! That guard said he saw a Hobbit go this way, so one of them has to be around here. And can you be any louder?"

"You're the one yelling at me! They've probably already heard you!"

Bilbo felt Rory pressing against his shoulder, but he held still, waiting until his cousins had walked further down the path before sighing deeply. Then he turned a glare on Rory, grim as his cousin shrank back. "It's dangerous to be in here, Rory, those things poison the air," he whispered, and despite his anger, he only felt misery when Rory's expression faltered with shock. "Hide those in your pocket, and follow me."

Bilbo ducked out of the entrance and crept along the wall, until he could edge out of sight from his cousins, who still had not noticed their presence, and hurried away. He heard Rory's soft breaths behind him, short huffs through his nose that belied Rory's distress, but he did not speak again until they were several hallways away, closer to the center of the city. Bilbo slowed and waited for Rory to fall in step beside him. His chest still ached with his fury, but he was calmer now, the silence easing his tone a little when he spoke again.

"I'm disappointed in you," he started, and Rory stiffened beside him but remained quiet. "That cave was meant to stay a secret forever. I don't know how you found it, and I don't much care. The point is, what you were thinking of doing was foolish. I understand why... why you wanted to destroy them, but Rory, if you had even managed to set them on fire, you would have been poisoned by the fumes yourself. Even just being in there can hurt you."

He slowed, and Rory slowed with him, fists clenching at his sides. Bilbo met his gaze, subtly flinching when he saw the tears in Rory's hazel eyes. He watched Rory purse his lips and struggle with himself, before finally his cousin responded.

"I was doing it for you," Rory muttered, and Bilbo's breath hitched.

"Rory --"

"No, Bilbo, I was doing it for _you_ , and for Rollo Boffin, and for our nosy cousins who worry too much for their own good, and for the families that are going to come here and are going to remember -- and you, always you, because you're still in so much _pain!_ " Rory's voice ended on a shout, and Bilbo stepped back abruptly, stunned by the mention of Rollo Boffin, and by the emotion in Rory's voice.

"So what if I was going about it the wrong way? I didn't know what I would find, but I tried to be prepared for anything. I'd only just gotten there when you arrived, so it's not like I was rushing in to do something stupid! Scolding me like a child -- you're my cousin, Bilbo Baggins, not my father! No, don't start," Rory said sharply, as Bilbo opened his mouth. "I've had to watch you suffer for years, and this I could do -- or I thought I could do -- and you yelling at me isn't _helping_ \--" His voice broke off, and Bilbo watched as Rory took a deep, shuddering breath, shocked into silence.

Rory's words hung in the air between them, heavy with memory and the despair both of them had felt for years in this place. They had argued like this before, over injuries, after beatings, before long nights where Rory would be trapped with his family, separate from Bilbo who would be left to Azog's mercy. How many times had Rory gotten angry on his behalf? How many times had Bilbo become furious at Rory, for using himself as Bilbo did to push Azog? There were memories in these walls that Bilbo wanted to forget, but to push those memories into oblivion would be to dishonor his cousin and all that he had sacrificed for Bilbo.

Perhaps, too, it would dishonor all that Bilbo had sacrificed for Rory, and for the Hobbits who had died with black on their mouths.

Finally Bilbo pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to Rory who hurriedly wiped his face and blew his nose. The familiar noise made Bilbo's mouth quirk with a faint smile, but it quickly faded.

"You're right, Rory, I shouldn't have treated you like a child, or yelled at you. I'm sorry," he said quietly, watching as Rory snuffled into his handkerchief and squinted at him. "But you still did a foolish thing, and I am still angry at you for it. The mushrooms are dangerous. I don't want you going in there again." He frowned when Rory scowled at him mutinously.

"We've got to get rid of them."

"I know that," Bilbo snapped, turning away and pacing a bit. "We can't burn them out, and we don't have the time to pull them all out -- and where would we throw them, anyway? They could get into the drinking water, or someone else could find them, and I can't -- I can't let someone else get hurt because of them," he whispered, stopping with his back to Rory.

When Rory's hand landed on his shoulder, he flinched again, but relaxed as Rory's thumb rubbed circles into his neck. "Someone's going to stumble upon them sooner or later, Bilbo. We've got to do _something._ "

"Stumble upon them," Bilbo murmured. A thought dawned in the back of his mind, and he turned to Rory with a grin, sudden and fierce. "Rorimac Brandybuck, I could kiss you!"

"Please don't," Rory said quickly, backing away, but Bilbo only laughed.

"Not like that. I've got an idea. Here, we can do this..."

~

"It really is fortunate that your cousin stumbled upon those mushrooms before any of the children found them," Balin said, smiling at Bilbo as he poured them tea. "Fieldmaster Doran is taking a team down there to survey the cave. It is easy enough to block off the tunnels to that area, and it gives us a reason to search out any other nasty surprises. Quite a clever lad you are, Mister Brandybuck." He slid two cups of tea over and turned to find the sugar, not noticing when Bilbo and Rory exchanged glances. Rory seemed pinkish as he took the bowl of sugar cubes.

"You can just call me Rory, Balin. It really was just an accident. I didn't mean to go that far down, but I never got to explore much when we were, uh," he hesitated, and Bilbo had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, so you lived here with Bilbo during that time, then?" Balin asked, kind eyes curious, and Rory nodded sheepishly, even as his shoulders tensed. Bilbo sipped his tea silently, interested to see how his cousin handled a figure of authority.

"Yeah -- yes, but we weren't allowed out like Bilbo was. He knows far more of these caves than any of the rest of us," Rory said, shooting Bilbo a look, and Bilbo hid a nervous smile behind his tea.

"I'm glad that the cave will be cleared out. Rory did a good thing," he said, sliding his gaze over to his cousin, and Rory watched him for a long moment, hazel eyes troubled and dark, until some light touched them and he gave Bilbo a hesitant smile.

Balin watched them, interested and thoughtful, until the three of them turned at the sound of the door opening.

"There you are!" Otho said loudly, looking at Bilbo and Rory with a glare, while Drogo sighed in exasperation beside him.

"Otho, we should have knocked, they're having tea with Lord Balin," Drogo hissed, and Balin snorted at them both, causing the two Hobbit boys to look at him in chagrin.

"You can call me Balin, lads, given your relationship to Bilbo here. Come in and join us! Did you have a walk as well?" he asked, and Bilbo could not have wished for a better ally, despite Balin not knowing how he was helping. 

The boys sheepishly walked over and sat down to share in the tea. Bilbo did not miss Drogo's suspicious glance his way or how Otho watched Rory like a hawk, but he let Balin distract his cousins with small talk. Bilbo remained mostly quiet, still anxious for all that he smiled and nodded to the conversation.

Rory had given him the idea, but it had still terrified him to give away the secret location of the cave. Yet he knew that the Dwarves, better than anyone else, would know how to handle the mushrooms promptly and without recourse. Letting Balin handle the issue had worked beautifully; but Bilbo was still scared, shaky, anxious that they would realize that he had already known of the mushrooms and used them to foul intent.

Even if Rory had argued rather impressively with him that it would never be Bilbo's fault.

It was deceitful and manipulative, and Bilbo hated every moment of it, but Rory himself had come forward and said that he had found a cave of mushrooms that looked 'foul and poisonous,' and from there Balin took it upon himself to send out the orders to empty the cave. Bilbo had mostly remained quiet, tense though he had hidden it well. Rory had done well, for all that Bilbo was still upset with him.

That was dwindling quickly, though.

"That reminds me, Bilbo," Balin said sometime later, and Bilbo looked up from his tea in surprise.

"Yes?"

"There's a convoy heading back to Erebor in the morning, and I'm sending some letters off with them. I understand you have a correspondence with Thorin?" Balin asked, eyes keen on Bilbo's face, which began to heat with embarrassment.

"We have... something of a rapport, yes," he managed, trying to ignore his cousins' wide-eyed stares. "Would you mind terribly if I sent something with them? And perhaps to Beorn, as well, if they stop by there?"

Balin waved a hand, looking pleased, though Bilbo noticed how his gaze remained on Bilbo's face. "We'll be sending the letters by raven, and the creatures know Beorn's house, so that's fine. Anything you send should reach Erebor by sundown in three days," he said, a small grin twisting his mouth as he watched Bilbo flounder.

"Three -- days? Ravens? Oh, that's... quite convenient," he finished lamely, hurriedly sipping at his tea. Thorin could read his letter in three days?

"Yes, it takes two days to reach the East-gate, and then most of the day's hours by ravenflight. Walking takes weeks, and a good horse or pony can take us to Erebor in only a few days, but ravens are the fastest to carry information. I'll let the convoy leader know," Balin said cheerfully, and Bilbo looked over to see his three cousins grinning at him, Rory worst of all.

"Could that work the other way as well?" Bilbo said suddenly, his anxiety fading a little as another thought came to him. He smiled slowly, and Rory, Otho, and Drogo suddenly looked concerned. "I have three young Hobbits who will someday have matters of their own to attend to, and it would be an excellent lesson for all of them to write back to their families in the most formal of manners." He felt a little gleeful as his three cousins blanched. "Would a raven be able to fly back to the Shire?"

"I believe we were training them to do so, yes," Balin said, and he caught Bilbo's gaze and winked. "It would be an excellent opportunity to test their swiftness. I'll have some paper and pens delivered to your rooms this afternoon."

"Thank you, Balin," Bilbo murmured, hiding his smile behind his tea as Rory let out a groan and Otho shot him a glare, while Drogo tried to look pathetic. A little studying would keep the three of them out of trouble for the rest of the day.

"Don't think we won't find out more about this _correspondence_ ," Rory muttered out of the side of his mouth, and Bilbo felt his ears warm. He staunchly ignored his cousin.

The door burst open then, and in stomped Bofur, looking cross. "Balin! I've lost my Hobbits and no one seems to know -- oh," he faltered, stopping when he saw all four Hobbits sitting at a table with Balin. Bilbo blinked at him, while Rory put his head in his hands with a loud sigh, and Drogo and Otho looked shifty. "Where have you all _been_?" Bofur cried, going to join the group, and Bilbo could not help a small laugh.

"On a walk," he offered, and felt pleased when all three of his cousins scowled at him.

~

The mountain was well protected. The normal ways in had been boarded up, blocked off, or were part of a rotation of guards armed to the teeth. But goblins had once ruled these mountains, and Orcs beyond them -- there were ways in that the Dwarves had not yet found.

But Bolg, for all that he could sneak in, could not arrange the death of his prey. The Halfling was far too protected, too deep in the Dwarves' halls for Bolg to reach him. He had scented the slave, but some of the stench was old, from years of trailing after Azog like a Warg pup. Azog had always been straightforward and blatant in his hunts, but Bolg was subtle, silent, sneaky. Where Azog had been ferocious, Bolg was vicious. He used every underhanded trick to sneak upon his prey and destroy them.

He could not sneak upon Azog's whore. He could not get close. The Dwarves were too numerous and too attuned to the movements of Orcs. He would have to wait.

Then he would have his prey, and Azog's whore would not die quickly. Bolg would not allow it.

~

Thorin felt a shiver as the cool air hit his damp skin. The door closing behind him alerted him to a new presence in the training room, and he felt his opponent move suddenly. It was a feat to turn and swipe his staff against the back of Dwalin's knees, a victorious smirk lighting Thorin's face as Dwalin landed on his back with a harsh noise. He nudged the training weapon against Dwalin's shoulder, smug as his friend glared at him.

"Hello, Frerin," he called without looking up, and his brother snorted.

"Hello, brother. How many wins is that for you now?" Frerin asked, leaning against one of the walls as he watched Dwalin get up with a mutter, rolling his eyes at Thorin's grin.

"Four and four," Dwalin grunted, picking up his staff and giving Thorin a look. "Been training all winter, eh?" He didn't wait for Thorin's replying scowl and went to drink some water, while Thorin wiped at his forehead, long hair pulled up against the back of his neck. He was sweating and shirtless and far too pleased with himself. It was good to spar with Dwalin again; no one else but Frerin could beat him, usually.

"Not much else to do, except meetings and paperwork," Thorin retorted, catching the towel Dwalin threw at him and wiping at his face.

"Didn't find yourself a bedmate?" Dwalin asked, smirking, and Thorin felt thunder gather at his brow.

"Wasn't interested," he said shortly, and he felt Frerin's gaze on him, interested and cool. Dwalin eyed him, and Thorin scowled in response. "Sparring was enough."

"From what Dwalin told me, it wasn't like that the previous winter," Frerin said, and Thorin turned his scowl on his brother, while Dwalin barked out a laugh.

"Aye, all the fit, young dwarrows kept tailing him, practically _begging_ to be in Thorin's bed," Dwalin chortled, and Thorin gave a great sigh, going to fill a tankard with water. He drank greedily, ignoring both of them.

"Hm," was all Frerin said.

Thorin wiped the back of his mouth and grumbled. "I just wasn't interested. Not with all the politics, and I had other things on my mind anyway."

Dwalin only grinned at him, while Frerin looked bored, but Thorin saw the glint in his eye and knew that his brother was up to something.

"Have you heard from your Halfling yet?" Frerin said a moment later, and Thorin choked on his water.

"What do you mean?" he said, whirling around, and Frerin looked back innocently. Thorin's eyes narrowed, and Dwalin looked between them curiously, thick brows raising with interest. "Not yet," he said, going for casual, but he knew he had not fooled either of them. Dwalin only looked more interested, and Frerin finally smirked, a tiny quirk of his mouth that made Thorin sigh.

"Ye have been watching the ravens an awful lot lately," Dwalin said, mouth curling with a smirk.

"He keeps asking Dís if she's checked the letters yet," Frerin added.

"Always looking out the windows, watching westward," Dwalin continued.

"He's setting up the new Ravenhill outside the East-gate, too," Frerin supplied, looking pleased when Thorin glared at him.

"It's not like him to ward off bed partners," Dwalin said, sharing a glance with Frerin, who raised an eyebrow.

"One of my sources tells me he spent the whole winter lecturing Balin on how to handle the Halflings," Frerin murmured, uncrossing his arms and exchanging a knowing look with Dwalin.

"He did let the Halfling sleep in his tent," Dwalin offered thoughtfully, and Thorin's temper snapped.

"That's _enough_ ," he growled, stalking across the room to hang up his staff with quick, sharp movements. "Your gossip is not wanted nor appreciated, and I'll not have you speak that way of Bilbo when he arrives, nor any other time. Don't ever speak of him that way again." He turned to glare forebodingly at his best friend and brother, who stared back at him.

Dwalin looked surprised. Frerin looked satisfied. Thorin felt a headache starting to throb at his temple.

"Of course, brother mine," Frerin said serenely, while Dwalin's surprise shifted to suspicion. Thorin ignored them both and left quickly, knowing they would talk at length about him behind his back, but it was better for him to escape now than suffer through more of their antics. Frerin and Dwalin had been teaming up against him for as long as the three of them had been friends. It was enough to give Thorin ulcers.

He would not allow any rumors to sully Bilbo's reputation. He still had a lot of preparation to do for Bilbo's arrival; Dís was being stubborn about contracts, and Frerin was being far too nosy about Bilbo for Thorin's peace of mind. He thought briefly of how Dwalin and Frerin had teased him about finding a bed partner -- there was no shortage of them in Erebor, where even bonded couples had invited him to bed before.

But Thorin had not lied to them. He was not interested. Before, it was easy to ease his frustration with a good lay, but ever since he had won his war march, he had felt little inclination toward physical pleasure. Only sparring and work, between preparing Khazad-dûm and worrying over Bilbo.

 _No,_ he thought, scowling as he stalked through the halls to his rooms. _Worrying over Erebor._

Frerin was just trying to taunt him. He must have been bored these past few years without Thorin to distract Dís from tormenting him. It was revenge, surely. There was no other reason to insinuate such things.

Thorin pointedly did not think about Bilbo for the rest of the day, nor did he allow himself to look out the window for any sign of a raven from the west.

There were no ravens that day anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, my lovelies! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I do apologize for taking so long with it. Life happened, of course. It tends to do that.
> 
> Thank you to tribumvirate and kaavyawriting, as always, for their perfect jobs as beta readers. *beams*


	31. Challenge of the heart

To Bilbo's surprise, four days passed in Moria without anything else strange or discomforting happening. He kept looking over his shoulder for the next problem to arise, but nothing terrible occurred. The worst event of their entire stay was his argument with Rory; the rest of the days passed quietly, though Bilbo did notice that Bofur seemed to have issues keeping the boys in hand.

It was hard to walk through the halls of his master as if they belonged to someone else, so Bilbo kept to his room most of the time. He lectured his cousins on penmanship and how to write documents, and he let Bofur take Drogo and Otho around the halls, to be introduced to Dwarves who would teach them about this art or that craft. Rory mostly avoided these trips, choosing instead to sit with Bilbo or investigate the kitchens. He even followed Bilbo to the library, which Thorin had revealed to Bilbo in a small note he found hidden on the bookshelf in his room.

> _Bilbo,  
>  The library, which you revealed to myself and Gandalf, has been renovated, and many scholars have worked through the winter to recover the books and tomes there. Please peruse it at your leisure; they have already taken great strides in restoring the library. They know to expect you.  
>  Thorin_

The library, now cleaned of dust and filled with lamps, held new, shining bookshelves of pine with metal imprints. Bilbo was given no mind beyond curious looks from the scholarly Dwarves that worked on writing new books, though they did not let him read the ones in Khuzdul. Bilbo did not mind; he was content to explore, and he even got to read part of a very old book that had been translated, that discussed Hobbits and their relationships with Dwarves. He had asked to take notes on it, and the head of the library had granted him permission.

> _And unto Kuduk Brunol did Lord Hranur call 'friend' for all of their days, and their children were friends, and their children's children were friends as well. So were many Kuduk-kin in the day of Durin II, from unto the Vale into Khazad-dûm._

It was little more than a footnote, but it amazed Bilbo. It was a wonder to know some of their oldest history, though his people hardly remembered it. He recognized the old, old word for his race, as it was written in the oldest book of Hobbits that the Old Took had kept in his library. He looked forward, more than ever, to seeing the Vale and perhaps unearthing remnants of his people's history.

At one point Bilbo ended up in conference with Balin, who warmed to him quickly despite having a sharp glint to his kind gaze. They spoke of the numbers of Hobbits who would travel through the Halls, of the problems that Balin would face when he met the former slaves and victims of Orcs, and the cost of the Dwarves' aid to the Hobbits.

"Thorin wouldn't have me charge you even a bit of copper, Bilbo," Balin said patiently, but Bilbo was adamant.

"Thorin is not here, Balin, and I'll not have him give so much away to a Hobbit that did barely anything for him," Bilbo responded stubbornly, and he sighed when Balin snorted. "I understand that you all wish to help, but my people have their pride just as yours do. Can we not make a contract, if you will not take my payment? My people are farmers at heart and make fantastic items for the home, when they have the materials. Perhaps we could arrange a bartering system? When we can sustain ourselves, surely you will not wish to buy from faraway cities of Men, but from lovingly tended gardens of Hobbit-folk?"

"Of course we would, Bilbo, and I'll gladly draw up documents for a bartering system we could work at later. But that will come in time, and for now, you are a starving people, and we have a treasure hoard of gold that has been stolen from countless towns and villages across Middle Earth. We have divided the shares unto the seven clans already, and what is leftover will be put toward rebuilding Khazad-dûm. Now..." Balin watched him for a moment, and Bilbo shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Balin seemed to see into him as Gandalf did, but he did not show any inclination for meddling as Gandalf did. It was a refreshing change.

"You may not know this, but many of the Dwarves of the different companies that marched with Thorin felt strongly about what you and your kin faced. We freed Hobbits from Orc clans for years before we came to Azog's halls. It was decided a long time ago that a portion of what treasure we found would go to your people, as reparations for what the Orcs did. You have as much right to it as any of us. This is something that all of the clans agreed upon, and we decided on an even seven percent. Much of that is still being worked in the accountants' books, but I am willing to advance a portion of the Hobbits' share for your people to take to Erebor.

"Now," Balin said, holding up a hand when Bilbo leaned forward, heart thudding in his chest, "If you wish to use it for purchasing materials for your home, or arranging for guards, or for future trade, that is the prerogative of your people and none of our business. Thorin has insinuated to me, and I am sure to you as well, that he wishes to offer all that he can to help you. Use this to pay him and any contracts you make in Erebor. Dís would have Thorin's head if he tried to do anything with you without a contract," Balin finished cheerfully, and Bilbo could only stare at him. 

In the ensuing silence, Balin slid over a long but formal document, and Bilbo looked down to see that the document laid out the same agreement Balin had just explained. There were fourteen signatures at the end of the document -- and at the very bottom, he saw _Thorin Oakenshield_ , right beneath _Balin son of Fundin_.

Bilbo was struck speechless for several moments. When he finally found his tongue, he waved his hands helplessly, pushing at the paper. "But we have money," he tried weakly, but Balin shook his head.

"Surely not enough to rebuild a city. This is owed to you and your kin, Bilbo Baggins, as the victims of the monsters that destroyed your home. I can show you the math of it, and you will see that each of the clans gave you a portion of their share. You will find that the seven percent is not equal to each share that will pay the clans and their warriors, but each clan received nine percent in the first place --"

"No, no, they deserve all of their share," Bilbo said, picking up the contract and reading through it, fingers trembling. He thought of the small bag of gold, silver, and copper he had hidden in his room and how small it seemed in comparison to what he remembered of Azog's treasure hoard. Seven percent, and all to be given to his people? They had never cared for gold or coin as the other Folk of the world did, but Bilbo knew the value of money, having gone to Bree in his youth and purchased from Men and Dwarves. Hobbits bartered and traded with goods and services, not coin, which was why he carried so little; it was all the families that remained in the Shire could give.

Truly he had worried about how they would pay for materials. He had thought of promises they could not keep, of the different prices of stone and wood, of the work his exhausted kin would have to put into their new home before winter.

This would buy them all the wood and stone they needed, and more. They could arrange for workers; Dwarves who would build alongside Hobbits who could focus on their farms while the Vale transformed into a Shire. He could afford to save his people.

"Thank you," Bilbo murmured, carefully rolling up the contract. He tried to return it, but Balin shook his head, murmuring that it was for Bilbo to keep for his records. Bilbo pursed his lips, thinking. "My cousin, Thain Took, should have it when he comes. If you would keep it for him?" he requested, and Balin finally nodded, taking the contract from his hand.

He was dismayed at how easily Balin had turned the conversation around. Lifting his gaze, he fixed a curious look upon the Dwarf Lord. "Have you ever been a merchant?" Bilbo asked, and Balin beamed.

"In my youth, before I joined Thorin's council at the behest of my father. Dwalin, my brother, was always suited to tactics and the military, but I favored math and accounting when I was a wee lad. Done some business before?"

Bilbo shrugged, picking up the tea Balin had poured for him earlier. "My father handled most of the household business, but I began to sit with him once or twice a week after I turned twenty-five. I would have taken over at least half of his work by now, had Shirefall not happened," he finished quietly, and Balin lifted his thick brows, humming as he dropped another sugar into his own tea.

"I thought Hobbits tended toward agriculture," Balin hinted, and Bilbo gave him a small smile.

"Most of us, yes. My parents owned much of the land around our smial. My father bought it with my mother's dowry, and together they collected rent from families who wanted to farm there. My neighbors, the Greenhands, were particularly good gardeners, and they always gave us a discount when they went to market. Their old gaffer taught me most of my herbs," Bilbo smiled in memory, sipping the steaming drink. "I studied some with my Took relatives, but we did business only so far as to manage the land and barter with the Men from Bree. Hobbits had little need for coin, even back then."

"Remarkable," Balin said quietly, but before Bilbo could ask him what he meant, Balin had moved on, sweeping a finger over one of the maps he had pulled out for Bilbo. "Most of dwarrow business is run on contracts. We have agreements, trade mostly, with the Men of the south and the Elves of Mirkwood, and we will draw up similar agreements with your kin once you get on your feet. When you go to Erebor, meet with Princess Dís. She will work fair deals with you, and she's about the only one with the jurisdiction for it, since you'll be traveling there as an ambassador. Thorin never did like contracts," Balin chortled, and Bilbo smiled, amused at the thought of Thorin managing a contract with a grumpy expression.

So far, Thorin had been fairly straightforward about most of his affairs, even in his letters to Bilbo and his cousin Fortinbras. He was particularly keen on helping Bilbo, always reminding him of their promise. Bilbo's gaze was drawn to the contract that rested by Balin's elbow, and he was struck by a thought that galled him.

"That -- that stubborn Dwarf! So he knew about that agreement, to give us the gold, and still he -- oh, I am going to have words with him in my next letter," Bilbo fumed, and Balin looked at him in surprise.

"Whatever has the lad done now?"

" _You will not so easily escape my aid_ ," Bilbo mimicked, making a face and scowling at the contract. "I told him at least three times now that he doesn't need to do anything for me, but no, he tries to sneak in free aid _in addition_ to that." He waved at the contract and took a long drink from his tea, mumbling as he set the cup down. "Stubborn!"

"The whole line of Durins is hard-headed, to be sure," Balin agreed after a moment, and Bilbo nodded.

"I saw him, you know, shouting at his poor guards when they tried to make him sleep. He stayed up all hours of the night pouring over maps and completely ignoring his soldiers! Now he all but bullies me into accepting whatever he has to give, which is apparently _everything_ , and I'll not have it, Balin, I won't listen to a word he says from now on. I'm going straight to Princess Dís when I reach Erebor, and Thorin can stuff it if he thinks he's in my good graces now." Bilbo sniffed, glancing up in time to see Balin hide a smile and nod seriously at him.

"Princess Dís will steer you the right way. Don't let Thorin browbeat you into agreeing with him. He could use a challenge once in a while," Balin said in support, though Bilbo watched him curiously. He had had the impression, months ago, that Balin had not much liked him; he wondered what had changed. Then again, they had been speaking at ease for hours now, while Bofur was off showing Drogo and Otho around with Rory's help -- this time with no shenanigans, he hoped.

"He wintered here, didn't he? What did you do all winter?" Bilbo asked curiously, and Balin stirred his tea thoughtfully.

"Most of the lads, when they weren't working or sorting or cleaning, would spar down in the training hall. There was an old arena we found, that was used to great evil, but we recovered it and turned it into a training ground. Thorin spent many mornings there, fighting the mightiest of the warriors who stayed here. He was quite popular as I recall," Balin said, and Bilbo felt a shiver run up his spine.

The arena. Surely that was where the Trolls had been kept. Where Hobbits had died in horrific ways -- where Azog had made Bilbo watch. He tried to imagine Thorin fighting in that place, but he could only picture death. He quickly looked down at his tea, afraid of Balin seeing his expression.

"I could show you to it, if you like," Balin offered, but Bilbo was already shaking his head.

"I think I'll pass," he said quietly, offering Balin a small smile to show that he did not mean offense, and Balin shrugged in answer. "That was a place of death to me. I don't think any of the Hobbits who lived here would like to see it, or even to know of it. If you could keep them away from there, I would appreciate it, Balin."

Balin stared at him, tea forgotten as Bilbo met his gaze, back straightening. He did not explain more; Balin knew enough of Orcs that he could imagine. Instead he picked up one of the maps and looked over it, sipping at his tea until Balin cleared his throat into the awkward silence.

"My apologies, Master Baggins," the older Dwarf murmured, and Bilbo felt a hint of irritation, shaking his head.

"How could any of you know? This wasn't your home for seven years. It was ours, for all that we hated it, for all that we suffered every day. My people will be scared when they come here. They will fear these halls, they will cry at shadows and loud noises, and they will look into the darkness and expect to see goblins staring back at them. I understand that Dwarves see lost treasure when they look into these halls, but I and my kin only see death and despair. We will never want to be here again. 

"That said, I cannot judge you or your kin for what you change about these halls. They _are_ treasures to you, and you may do as you wish with them. Just... know that my kin will not be happy here, no matter how kindly you treat them. I cannot even begin to imagine what will trigger half of them when they come, but I can assure you that they will be miserable, as my cousin is, as I am. You are too kind by half, Balin, but you cannot change what was done to us. No one can."

He set his tea down carefully and laid out the map, his gaze drawn to Erebor where Thorin was surely reading his letter now. Balin was silent across from him, and Bilbo let the quiet soothe his fraying nerves. He had always been abrupt, even in his youth, and it had only worsened in the years from battling against Azog with his wits. He hoped that Balin would forgive his rudeness. He liked the older Dwarf.

"What was done to you will always remain a nightmare to the good people of this world, Master Baggins," Balin said quietly, and Bilbo looked up in surprise, tense in his chair. "Folk of the Shire were _good_ in ways that the rest of the world could not hope to imitate. I am sorry for what happened to your people, and I will do my part to ensure that they remain as comfortable as possible as they pass through our halls. I know we cannot heal them, but we will absolutely not hurt them, either. That I promise, for all of my kin." 

Balin met Bilbo's gaze then, and Bilbo felt humbled to see the respect in that soft gaze. He could only nod in reply.

~

In a large office with a heavy wooden desk and tall, steel-enforced windows, a dark-haired Dwarf snoozed, head tipped back against his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. His desk was covered in papers, and it was late in the afternoon. A forgotten platter of tea and flat breads sat at the edge of the desk, but the Dwarf behind it was far too drowsy to care. He had been home hardly a week and already he felt overwhelmed with work. He missed the simplicity of managing a war; managing a kingdom was much more tedious.

"Thorin, stop nodding off; I've got letters for you," said Dís as she came into the room, and Thorin startled upright from where he was slouching in his chair. She dropped several scrolls on his desk and shoved at his feet until he put them down, gave him a stern look, and marched out the door, off to boss their brother around. Thorin scowled at her back, but he did not keep the expression for long; Dís knew when she was being glared at. He was better off pretending he had never dozed off in the first place.

With a grumble he pulled the pile of letters toward him, sorting through them until he came across one with a familiar blue ribbon. His heart skipped a beat, and without a care for the other letters, he grabbed the scroll and pulled the ribbon loose.

The handwriting on the letter did not disappoint. Thorin grinned when he saw his name in neat, familiar letters.

> _Dear Thorin,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in good health, as yours did me just yesterday._

"Are you working on that agreement, Thorin?" Dís said warningly from the doorway, and Thorin jumped and looked up from his letter guiltily. He frowned at his sister, whose did not bat an eyelash at his expression. "I need it by sundown for the Textiles Guild, and you know that Guildmaster Ghaur is annoying on the best of days; he'll be insufferable if we're late with a contract again. One of those letters is from Balin, and I want to know what it says, so worry about the others later." She left without allowing him to argue, and Thorin scowled at her back, not caring when she shot an answering glower over her shoulder at him.

With great reluctance, Thorin set Bilbo's letter aside and pulled Balin's missive open, reading through it quickly. He handed it over to Dís wordlessly a short while later, then went to work on her contract, keeping his muttering to himself. He finished the contract in record time and stomped past her desk a bit too loudly, dropping it in front of her and pretending not to hear her surprised voice calling his name as he left the office, Bilbo's and Bofur's letters in hand.

He had been waiting for Bilbo's letter for weeks. Bofur's message was only an afterthought.

When at last Thorin settled into his favorite chair in his quarters, beside the window his kin had accused him of looking out for ravens so often, he wasted no time in reading Bilbo's letter, thoughtlessly twisting the ribbon through his fingers.

> _Dear Thorin,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in good health, as yours did find me just yesterday. We reached the West-gate three days ago, late by my hopes but still ahead of my kin who travel from the Shire. We were delayed three weeks by our stay in Rivendell, but our stay in Balin's halls will be short, so that we may reach Beorn quickly. It is fortunate he lives so close_

Thorin stopped reading then as the words 'our stay in Rivendell' caught up to him. " _What?_ Rivendell?! What does he mean?" He dropped the letter and grabbed for Bofur's message, knowing that his friend would tell him exactly what happened. A few papers slid out with the letter as Thorin opened it, and when he picked them up, he saw that they were notes on Mirkwood, the Nauglamír, and Thranduil, among other topics. His lips twisted with disgust at the mention of the Elf king, but he set the notes aside to read Bofur's missive.

> _Reporting from Khazad-dûm, Bofur of Erebor:_
> 
> _Majesty, I have several weeks of news that you will not like. We are late reaching Balin by three weeks at least, though we left the Shire on time. I traveled with Gandalf, who shared watch with me, Bilbo Baggins, and his cousins Rorimac Brandybuck, Drogo Baggins, and Otho Sackville-Baggins. Travel was normal up until about six days from the West-gate._
> 
> _We were ambushed by an orc pack an hour after dawn. Gandalf and I fought them off, but Bilbo's cousin Drogo was injured by an arrow during the fight. Bilbo fell off the cart while I was driving away, but he hid in the woods and turned up safe. Drogo's shoulder got infected, and Gandalf suggested Rivendell as the closest placeto take Drogo to heal. It was a day's ride away, and Gandalf said he was friends with the elf lord Elrond._
> 
> _I told them both, the elves wouldn't help us, but Bilbo agreed with Gandalf and argued with me about it. I'm sorry, majesty, but against the two of them, I couldn't stop it from happening. We went to Rivendell. The elf lord there gave us rooms and refilled our packs while we stayed. In the end, it went well enough, because the elves healed Drogo, and I found a few things in some of their books._
> 
> _We stayed in Rivendell for two weeks while Drogo recovered. I took the time to teach the lads some defensive skills, while Bilbo holed himself up in the library. I tried spying on Elrond and his commander Glorfindel, but the elves were mistrustful of me and always spoke in their own language around me. What I did find out, I wrote for you in the attached papers, and I'll share my thoughts on the whole mess in the end of my report._
> 
> _It pains me to say it but Rivendell did something good for the hobbits, Bilbo in particular. I made sure the elves knew everything about what he did for you and our people. He made friends there, knowing some of the elf-language, and they treated him well. He ate more and acted happier, and I know he got some much-needed rest. Bilbo barely slept on our journey, and he stopped sleeping completely once we passed the West-gate._
> 
> _At least, he stopped sleeping until he settled in the room Balin gave him, which held some very familiar items, majesty._

Thorin felt his face heat with embarrassment, knowing that when Bofur had scrawled that last line in the margin of his letter, he must have been grinning. He felt the ribbon tighten in his fingers and realized he was squeezing it tightly, anxious from Bofur's report. He glanced at Bilbo's letter again, reading _as yours did find me just yesterday_ again to ease his tension. He gave a deep sigh and flexed his fingers, loosening the ribbon which had tightened around his knuckles.

> _Balin's done well to treat the hobbits kindly, but they ended up lost for a bit. I had to chase the boys around all day, and Bilbo disappeared as well. No idea where he went or what he did; the lad knows too much of these halls. He looks haunted again, but he's eating fine and he slept late in your rooms. I'll keep a close eye on him regardless._
> 
> _As for the elves_

Thorin set the report down, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with a small groan, choosing to read Bofur's thoughts on Elves later. Elves. Bilbo had been stuck in Rivendell of all places, with _Elves_ of all beings. Bofur deserved another commendation for dealing with those creatures -- though Thorin would surely have words with his friend for going anywhere near the Elves in the first place -- and one more besides for keeping Bilbo safe. Orcs, attacking travelers on the road? If anyone else had been victimized by the foul monsters, Thorin would have suspected no more; but Bilbo was known to the Orcs and an enemy of them all besides. No doubt some of them were hunting hobbits, or even just Bilbo specifically.

He wished he had stayed with Balin. He would have escorted Bilbo to Beorn himself to protect him. He had promised Bilbo he would be safe after Azog, and he had failed to keep his promise. Bofur at least had acted well in his stead, but just the knowledge that Bilbo could have been hurt grated on his nerves. He wondered how quickly Dís would notice if he left. He could probably make it three days out before she sent someone after him.

On some level he realized how obsessive he was acting toward a Hobbit he barely knew. He knew that his actions were excessive, if Dís' glares over his proposed contracts with the Hobbits were any indication. Frerin and Dwalin had not stopped teasing him, either, and he knew they would be insufferable the moment they found out about his reaction to receiving Bilbo's letter. He knew that he was keen on Bilbo; he knew that his level of worry was too high to be normal.

He knew it was just because of everything Bilbo had done for him. It had nothing to do with the way Bilbo had clung to his hands the last morning they had seen each other, nor the detailed letters Bilbo was sending him. It had nothing to do with the look on Bilbo's face when Thorin had laid his key over Bilbo's heart.

Thorin would deal with his teasing family and friends. What did it matter if he worried for a friend? Dwarves had risked their lives for him many times in the past; Dwalin had saved him too many times to count, and he was Thorin's greatest and closest friend. Bofur, too, had done some great deeds for Thorin, and next to his siblings and Dwalin, he trusted Bofur the most. It was no different for Bilbo Baggins, who had saved Thorin's life and killed his worst enemy.

Thorin eyed Bilbo's letter, tightening the ribbon around his fingers. Was he too concerned? Perhaps he should save the letter for later. He could read through Bofur's reports and share them with Frerin, who would undoubtedly have thoughts on how to deal with the Elves. He would keep his mind off Bilbo and the uncomfortable obsession he was developing.

He should -- but he did not. Thorin picked up the letter and continued to read, gaze dark and half-lidded.

> _Dear Thorin,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in good health, as yours did find me just yesterday. We reached the West-gate three days ago, late by my hopes but still ahead of my kin who travel from the Shire. We were delayed three weeks by our stay in Rivendell, but our rest in Balin's halls will be short, so that we may reach Beorn quickly. It is fortunate he lives so close to the East-gate, so that we may begin to plan for the arrival of my brethren and the foundations of our new home._
> 
> _I must thank you for your every kindness. Your letter and the notes you left me were a relief upon arriving in this place. The room that was given to me helped me rest after our journey, and I enjoyed the quiet of the halls. It was difficult to come here, but I was eased by your gestures. The soaps in the bath were a delight._
> 
> _As you said, it would be easier to call you Thorin, as you call me Bilbo. You have treated me well, as have Bofur and Balin, and the other dwarrows I have met in these halls. Gandalf has looked after me as well, though I admit that his wizardly ways are trying at times._
> 
> _I hope our acquaintance grows with our letters. I did not mean to surprise you, but I read quite a lot in my spare time and have written a few things in my youth. My skill may be no match for a king's knowledge, but I am glad to impress you with this. I look forward to your advice, and I thank you for every word of it._
> 
> _I did not mean to keep it from you, that I am related to the Thain. It does not mean much, for a relationship. My mother was his father's sister, and she married out of the family. The title of Thain is mostly honorary, as there is little need for leadership in the Shire. The Thain judged cases and civil affairs, to be sure, and the Took family home held a lot of our people's historical artifacts, but being related to the Thain is not much of an impression. Most everyone is related to each other in some way, for hobbits._
> 
> _Thorin, please do not apologize. You could not have predicted what happened to the Shire. Nobody did. My people have never held quarrel with any others, but we grew lazy in our peace, and we never imagined that we would be attacked as we were. It is no one's fault but Azog and the orc clan leaders. They chose to hurt us -- and look, they met their match not in my kin, but against the axes and swords of dwarves. They are gone now. You had no part in it, but in saving my kin at the end. Thank you, for that, and for everything you did for me in those dark days._
> 
> _I thank you for your assistance. When they arrive after me, my people will start working the land and building for winter. We have many skilled farmers and carpenters that will meet me in the Vale. They will know how to rebuild our home, but I thank you for your books and advice. My people will take care of themselves, as we always have._
> 
> _There is much to learn about your side of the world, and any advice you have to give is appreciated. What cities are there besides Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood? I heard of another elven city to the south, but what about other cities of men or dwarves? Could you tell me about those?_
> 
> _I have great trust in the words of elves. In Rivendell they were very kind to me and my cousins, and I have nothing to fear from them. Of course, dwarves are the experts of dwarf affairs, just as hobbits are the experts of hobbit affairs. The elves are still kind to us and are my friends. I know that dwarves and elves have a long history of distrust and other bad things, but they have never done anything to us hobbits, and they treated Bofur well while we visited Rivendell._
> 
> _I should explain why we were in Rivendell. While we were on the road, we were attacked by an orc scouting party. They had hunted us through the night because of me and my cousins. They did not know who I was before they attacked, but they hurt my cousin and when I killed one of them, they realized who I was and attacked me instead. I got away from them, while Bofur and Gandalf took care of the rest, but my cousin Drogo was injured. Gandalf suggested taking him to Rivendell, where Lord Elrond would be able to heal him._
> 
> _Bofur was under the impression that you would flay him if he 'allowed' us to go there. I told him, as I told you, that I will go where I please, and you may not flay Bofur for my choices. My cousin's life was more important than your and Bofur's antipathy for elves. Again, your opinions are your own, but I have nothing against elves, and Elrond treated us very kindly. He healed my cousin and offered my kin aid and protection. If that is going to cause problems between you and me, please explain why now._
> 
> _I don't understand it -- I know some of the history between your peoples, but does that mean every elf is terrible because of the actions of a few? And elves, the way they treat dwarves -- how is it fair? If both of you continue to hate each other, then there can never be peace. That is my opinion, and I am only a hobbit, not a dwarf or an elf, so perhaps I have no say on it at all._
> 
> _In any case, we stayed at Rivendell for two weeks while Drogo healed, and I spent much of my time reading on the history of the east in their library. I befriended the chief counselor Erestor, who assisted me with my research, and he even gave me the tools to write a book. I may ask you a few questions in the future about your war march. I only heard of it from one side of history, and your side is much more interesting than the orcs._
> 
> _I honestly did not know what to think when we reached Moria. Azog's halls were gone, replaced by dwarves and craftwork I have never seen before. There were rooms uncovered that I had never found in my wanderings, and there were rooms that I had hated which had been changed into something good. It was such a drastic change, but I am glad for it. Hopefully my kin will feel the same when they pass through. I have given Balin advice on how to handle so many hobbits, so perhaps it will be fine._
> 
> _Thorin, I worry about them though. I worry so much about the children and all the families who suffered because of Azog and the orcs. I don't know if they will be able to handle it. I worry so much for them! I worry so much for our future in the Vale! I am not brave or clever or brilliant as you say. I'm really not any of those things. I am only a hobbit. I have no idea how to help them, how to convince them to walk those shadows again and not turn back the way they came._
> 
> _I hope you are right and the Vale will become a good home to us. I have a feeling that we will prosper there, for we did once before, but I worry still. I will always worry, I think, and that is probably a good thing. It is a terrible waste to become arrogant and careless, as he did._
> 
> _He knew you were coming, you know. He plotted and planned and warred against you, warned his allies of you, but you still took him by surprise. Oh, he was so furious, Thorin, every time you won. I used to dream of your arrival. I used to hope that you would kill him and free us. I never, ever imagined it would actually happen._
> 
> _I don't know what to say to you. Thank you. All I can say is thank you. For freeing me, for freeing my people, for treating me like a person and giving me so much of your trust and friendship. You are far too stubborn by half, dwarf king of Erebor, but I believe in you._
> 
> _I hope you know it goes the other way as well. Tell me about your worries, about your anger, about what bothers you, about what keeps you up at night. I know you hardly slept in the camp, and I doubt that has changed much in the past few months. Surely you must have a lot on your mind after marching in a war and ruling a kingdom. Let me help to ease that stress, as you have helped me._
> 
> _Your words mean a great deal to me, about Azog and your faith in me. You see through me so easily. I do not deserve it, but I am happy for it all the same. Our promise is very important to me, and I am glad that it means a great deal to you as well. I think, even if I avoided you, that you would find some way to become my friend, for you are as stubborn as the stone of your kingdom. I want to be yours as well._
> 
> _I hope that your return home was glorious. Did the people come out to greet you? Was your family happy to see you? I am sure your return home was far more celebrated than mine, being the king of a nation, but when I returned to the Shire, I saw my family for the first time in seven years, and I was happier than I had ever been. To know that they were alive and well -- was it the same for you?_
> 
> _Bofur's stories of Erebor are beautiful, but your description of the library has me very tempted to go visit Erebor right now. You are far, far too kind, and I would not wish to learn your language if it is forbidden. I do not wish to offend your people. It would be enough just to see your library._
> 
> _Khazad-dûm is a beautiful place, but I will be glad to leave it in a few days. Again, thank you for your letter, and for the notes you left. Thank you as well for leaving the furs from your tent in the camp, and for the soaps in the bathroom. I was not doing well when we arrived here. I have slept poorly in the past few weeks. Being in this room, though... being in the room where you slept, it relaxed me, enough that I slept for most of this morning. It was familiar. Your tent had been safe to me, and this room is safe as well. Thank you._
> 
> _This entire letter has been a very long thank you. Every day I think of our promise. I think of how I have healed since you found me, and how each day seems a little bit brighter, a little bit easier to live. I look forward to meeting you again. Every day is better, every day is one step closer to being normal._
> 
> _I will do more for you than simply be your friend, Thorin. I will be your confidant and your ally. All of those things that you say I can do for you -- those are things that you are doing for me! Please, tell me what you want. Tell me your desires, your hopes, what you dream for the future of your kingdom. What I can do, I will for you._
> 
> _I still mean what I told you, all those months ago when we last spoke. I can think of nothing that will ever compare to what you have given me. But I understand now, a bit more, what you meant, that it is not a matter of balancing our debts to each other. This is not a trade. I understand that -- and still I want to help you as you have helped me. Someday I will. Someday you will show me what you need the most, and I will give it to you, but that will not be the end of us. I hope that our friendship lasts a long, long time._
> 
> _Be well and safe. I look forward to your next letter. Supposedly this will reach you within a few days, by ravenflight? Maybe our correspondence will be quicker now, if ravens carry them between us._
> 
> _With all good wishes,  
>  Bilbo_

Thorin breathed in slowly, realizing how tight his chest was and how his hand ached from squeezing the ribbon across his fingers. He loosened the ribbon and laid it on the counter, smoothing the blue silk, but his gaze was drawn again to Bilbo's signature and the words above.

He felt a great, possessive pride that he had been right, that Bilbo had slept easily in his bed, that his gifts had been appreciated, and that Bilbo still believed in him. He was infuriated at the same time, that Bilbo trusted Elves so, that he had relied on Elves in ways that he did not rely on Thorin, and that Bilbo and his kin had been hurt enough in the first place that he had _needed_ the Elves. Thorin frowned, his gaze sliding up to 'Erestor,' wondering who this twit of an Elf was to befriend Bilbo in a way Thorin had not.

Maybe he was a bit obsessed -- but Bilbo was important to him. He did not like sharing him, either, particularly with Elves. 

_I only heard of it from one side of history, and your side is much more interesting than the orcs. ... I used to dream of your arrival. I used to hope that you would kill him and free us. I never, ever imagined it would actually happen._

There was a history that Thorin did not know, that Bilbo hinted at but never told; that Bilbo had known of Thorin before Thorin had met him, from Azog. Thorin had fought Azog once during the war, before he actually reached Azog's halls; he wondered now what Azog had done when he had returned to his home, to the slave he liked to torture. The very thought made Thorin seethe for a moment, but he was able to calm himself with the thought that Azog was dead and would never, ever hurt Bilbo again.

Oh, but every letter Bilbo sent him made Thorin worry. He was relieved, though, by Bilbo's words, _every day is better_ , because it meant that Azog was losing even in death. He wanted, suddenly, to see Bilbo again, _now_ , to hold his small hands and make sure, with his own eyes, that Bilbo was healthy, whole, and that these letters were not a dream; that Bilbo was safe.

He was galled by Bilbo's stubborn, willful words, and impressed at the same time. Friends with Elves? Challenging Thorin at the same time that he offered friendship? But Thorin appreciated it, admired Bilbo even -- to know that Bilbo did not back down from him as most others did. Bilbo was determined, and Thorin felt pleased and irritated at the same time.

He brought his fingers to his eyes and rubbed at them, remembering how he had snapped at Dwalin and Frerin. Why was he so obsessed?

How could he _not_ be obsessed? Bilbo was an enigma, and Thorin intended to investigate every part of him, to learn every thought in his mind and _know him_. Both letters had given Thorin only small pieces of who Bilbo was, but that would change with time. They would write more letters. He would meet Bilbo someday. They would sit together and speak at leisure, and he would know Bilbo, know him as he knew his family and himself.

Even if Bilbo continued to challenge him, as Thorin suspected he would. Already, even through his letter, Bilbo was challenging Thorin's decisions and opinions, in ways that were not offensive, but Thorin was unused to someone being so forward with him. Only his siblings dared, and they had known him all their lives. Bilbo had known him for less than a year, hardly more than a couple letters and a week, really, and already he had proven wily and clever, turning Thorin's words around and showing him that Bilbo was not cowed by them. The Hobbit had survived Azog of all creatures, by challenging the Orc commander with his brilliance and nothing else; what hope did Thorin have to defeat Bilbo in a battle of wits?

Thorin grinned against the palm of his hand, already imagining their arguments. It felt _good_ to have a challenge again. He opened his eyes and picked up the letter, reading through it again slowly, taking apart each sentence and finding the hidden meanings. Nobody could out-stubborn a Dwarf -- but he suspected Bilbo might try.

Thorin looked forward to the challenge.

~

On the last night of their stay in Balin's halls, Bilbo left his cousins and went for a walk alone. The halls were mostly empty of workers, the majority of the Dwarves having chosen to send Bilbo and his company off with a grand feast. Like with any dwarven meal, Bilbo had grown too tense from the noise and energy, and he had left, seeking solace in the quiet of halls that had always known noise.

At least the stone pathways stayed brightly lit. Bilbo saw into the shadows, though, and he knew that the darkness carried secrets that he would forever keep. He wandered, thinking to himself about the letter he had sent and what he might receive from Thorin; maybe there was a response waiting for him at the East-gate. He looked forward to what Thorin had to say.

Without meaning it, Bilbo's feet found their way to a familiar door. He looked up and stared glumly at Azog's bedroom, at the room of his hell. Here, the hall was almost silent, but for the music in the distance and the soft breathing from the shadows beside him.

Bilbo's heart almost stopped when he realized what he was hearing. He looked over, reaching to his side, but he had left Sting in his room; it would have done nothing for him, though. _Azog is here, Azog has come back, he's here to kill me,_ Bilbo thought numbly -- and then foul-smelling hands grabbed him, covering his mouth to stifle his shout. His arm was twisted roughly behind his back, and Bilbo grabbed at the wrist pressed against his neck. He screamed against the hand, but a familiar voice snarled at him.

_"You'll be silent and obedient, halfling, else I kill you as you did my father," _said Bolg into his ear, and Bilbo felt terror as he had not since he had last seen Azog alive.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: _Thorin is a bean._
> 
> By the way, I've already fled the country and possibly the planet. You can't find me.
> 
> Thank you to tribumvirate and kaavyawriting, the most perfect people on the planet.


	32. Half a world away (yet right beside us)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Mild violence.
> 
>  **Word meanings** :  
>  _Sulfiilu_ \-- Great Eagles

There was a moment, that Bilbo wondered if he was finally dead, before Bolg picked him up and carried him away, hand pressed tightly to Bilbo's mouth, smearing dirt over his face. Then they were running through the shadows, through the halls that no one walked.

"Nngh," Bilbo tried to scream, kicking his legs, but Bolg only shook him.

"Silence!"

The Westron shocked Bilbo enough that he stilled, fear clutching his chest. He felt bits of his sanity slipping away, breathing in the stench of Orc and shuddering. He had _forgotten_ , but now he could vividly picture those halls again, Azog leaning over his shoulder with claws sliding through his hair, Orcs grunting and cursing in the background.

Yet Bolg was silent as they moved. All Bilbo could hear was the thudding of his heart in his ears and the faint thuds of Bolg's boots on the ground. How Bolg, who was as massive as Azog had been, could move with such stealth was beyond his understanding of the world. Orcs were loud, vicious, and were heard all too easily.

He feared for his life, and for the life of his cousins and friends, and the Dwarves who protected them. Did more Orcs wait within the shadows? Was Bolg leading an invasion? But each step brought no more light to the mystery of why Bolg was in Moria -- except to kill Bilbo, whom he was hunting.

Bilbo felt fear seize his heart, and he struggled more against Bolg's hands. The Orc growled low in his chest, and the familiar noise startled him into sobbing. He tried to turn his face from Bolg's hand but the dirty fingers only pressed more tightly to his mouth.

He was going to die in Moria after all.

He did not realize where they were, until Bolg slowed and began to creep through the shadows, toward a familiar door and a Dwarf that stood guard there. Bilbo's heart leapt in his throat, and he stumbled when Bolg set him down but did not release him. Bolg did let go of his mouth, and Bilbo had only time to shout, "Behind you!" before Bolg drew his sword and there was a spray of red in Bilbo's vision. 

Bilbo's thoughts stuttered to a halt. 

The Dwarf lay dead on the floor. At least he looked dead to Bilbo; there was a pool of blood beneath his beard and his eyes were closed. Bilbo wanted to go to him and rouse him, shake him, find out his name and call him back to life, but Bolg had a hand clenched over his shoulder, and Bilbo was afraid the Orc would simply crush it.

Bolg dragged him to the door and muttered, _" Janad,"_ and Bilbo watched as the doors to the treasure room swung open silently. The Khuzdul word rang in his ears, shocking him to silence again.

"Bring me the rings," Bolg hissed, shoving Bilbo into the treasury, and Bilbo stumbled as Bolg let him go. 

"Rings?" Bilbo said, looking over his shoulder in fear, backing away when Bolg's lips curled in disdain. Bolg had never made any secret of his hatred of Bilbo nor his disgust at Azog's ownership of him; it was only a matter of time before Bolg grew impatient and slit Bilbo's throat. 

But what did he want with rings?

Bolg's pale eye narrowed with malicious intent, and Bilbo took several steps back, his heart beating faster.

"Gold rings. Bring them to me," Bolg said, pointing his blade at the treasury, and Bilbo could see no other choice but to obey him. He turned to the side, not daring to show his back to Azog's son, and looked over the treasure room, which had transformed with organization, chests of gold coins stacked neatly on one side, scales and bowls of gems covering long tables, and carefully stacked weapons, chalices, and other precious items waiting to be stored away.

It took several moments, while blood beat loudly in his ears and terror made him tremble, but there -- a box of gold links. Bilbo began walking toward the table of scales, seeing more necklaces and bracelets laid out on velvet. There were trunks that were full of jewelry on the floor, and Bilbo fell to his knees, numbly grabbing for the gold rings he could see.

Why was Bolg here? Why did he want gold rings? Was there any way to escape him, to warn the others -- surely Bolg had reinforcements? But why were they not here? Bolg rarely traveled alone; he almost always had his second-in-command or at least his servant. Maybe if Bilbo obeyed, Bolg would lose interest enough for him to escape. As Bilbo thought of ways to reach the door without Bolg noticing, something sharp nicked his neck, and he flinched.

"Show me," Bolg said behind him, and Bilbo turned to hold up several rings in his shaking hands, all of them with large rubies or intricate designs. Surely this would do?

Bolg snarled after he looked at them and smacked them from Bilbo's hands, leaving the rings to scatter along the floor, tinkling as they hit the stone. Bilbo scrambled back as Bolg reached for the chest and began to empty it on the floor, throwing the jewelry about as he searched.

 _"Not here, not here -- where is it? The master will kill me,"_ Bolg growled to himself in the Black tongue, and Bilbo stiffened. Bolg had a _master_? He looked away when Bolg glanced at him, heart beating fast, wondering who in these lands could control Bolg, who had defied even Azog for years.

Bolg did not reach for him again, instead going to upend several bowls and boxes of jewelry, his snarling getting louder and harsher as he rummaged. Bilbo began to inch back, his gaze shifting briefly to the wall where there were weapons. He curled into a crouch, ready to leap away -- when Bolg grabbed his arm and pulled him up, making him shriek.

"Where else?" Bolg demanded, and Bilbo kicked at him, shaking his head and clutching at Bolg's wrist. 

"I don't know! Let me go!"

"Tell me, _nûl-lûpûrz_ ," Bolg hissed, and the shock of hearing his old name was enough to make Bilbo stop kicking, hearing Azog's voice in Bolg's tone.

"B-Balin said everything else was... was sent with the Dwarves going home," he tried, and he flinched when Bolg shook him.

"Useless! _I would have your head on a pike if I did not need you!_ " Bolg snarled, dropping Bilbo to the ground. Bilbo covered his head automatically, scrambling back, his hand flying to his neck.

He felt his chain then and realized that he had his magic ring, the simple gold ring that had saved him before. A sense of cold fell across the back of his neck, and Bilbo looked up at Bolg, gripping the collar of his shirt and not daring to pull out his necklace.

"Why are you looking for a gold ring?" Bilbo asked, and Bolg's gaze cut to him, narrowing with suspicion.

"Silence," Bolg ordered again, but Bilbo stood, a hateful, possessive feeling overcoming him, at the thought that _Bolg might take his ring_.

"Why a gold ring?" Bilbo asked again, his voice going high, and Bolg grabbed him around the neck and held him up.

"Why are you asking, _nûl-lûpûrz_? What do you know? Tell me!" Bolg whispered furiously, shaking Bilbo, but he could not answer, for the hand around his throat and the panic seizing his mind, at the thought that Bolg would take his ring and kill him here, and he _could not_ let it happen, he could not die here, he had been _so close_ \--

He kicked up with his feet, landing his heel on Bolg's flat nose, and Bolg let go of Bilbo's neck with a grunt. Bilbo felt sharp pain against the back of his neck, suddenly -- and then he heard the soft sound of metal hitting the floor. He looked down as Bolg threw his mithril chain to the floor, seeing his key and rings laying there.

The ring called to him. All he had to do was reach it, put it on --

A shout from outside the hall caught their attention, and Bolg let out a deep growl, grabbing Bilbo around the waist and taking off through the open doors, past the dead Dwarf and in the opposite direction of several more Dwarves. Bilbo twisted in his grip, calling for help, and the last thing he saw before they disappeared into the shadows was three Dwarves chasing after them, axes raised.

"Help!" Bilbo called, reaching out -- but Bolg was too fast, and Bilbo could not break free.

~

Rory had a pleasant buzz going as he listened to Bofur and his new friend Dvalud argue good-naturedly about how long to brew for the perfect ale. He had given what little knowledge he had learned in his youth and was now happily soaking up all the information they had, dreaming of making his own house barrels to sell at his own inn and tavern. They would need one, in the Vale, and he would be of age soon, and Brandybucks had always had good heads on their shoulders. A new business would be good for the family.

Amaranth could handle his finances, and Primula would boss even the drunkest of their patrons to the door if they made a ruckus. Drogo and Otho would work with him, learn the ropes of business. Too bad they had already gone to sleep tonight -- Rory could have told them all about his idea.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a commotion at the door. Bofur grew quiet, while Dvalud's voice grew louder in argument. He didn't even notice when Bofur stood to join the growing crowd of Dwarves at the door, but Rory did.

He stood from the table and followed.

"--annae go after them, we've no idea how many are hidin' in those caves --"

"Ye can't leave him! I've got a team ready to go, we know these caves, we can track them --"

"Not if that general's got him, the one from Gundabad. Boy's likely dead."

"You shut your mouth!" "Don't say that --" "He's not dead, not if we go after him _right now_ \--"

"What's happening here, fellas?" Bofur inquired amiably, breaking up the whispered argument, while Rory hung back, tucking himself at the edge of the wall. The Dwarves exchanged glances, as the tables around them grew silent with interest, quiet enough that they could all hear the words:

" _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins was taken by an Orc." The Dwarf held up a familiar necklace, Thorin's key shining in the lamplight, two gold rings glinting beside it.

There was an immediate uproar. Rory heard none of it. His knees buckled and he slid down the wall, staring at the necklace in the Dwarf's hand. No -- not Bilbo. His vision went grey, and he pushed the palms of his hands against his eyes, breathing in sharply against the pain in his chest.

_Bilbo._

A warm hand covered the back of his neck, and a deep voice murmured to him, "Breathe, lad." Rory exhaled, then sucked in a breath against the pain, and again, and again, until he did not feel dizzy anymore. He looked up through his fingers to see Bofur kneeling beside him. The Dwarf smiled at him. "Alright there?"

No, he was not alright. But Bilbo was missing, and every moment that Rory was not looking for him was another moment to add to Bilbo's nightmares. He nodded slightly, and Bofur helped him stand, turning to the crowd of Dwarves who were still arguing. The high level of noise suddenly dropped when Balin's voice cut through the clamor.

"There's no question of it. Bilbo Baggins is _khuzdibâh_ and our friend, and our honored guest besides. Captain Bren, take your group and follow the scouts that went after them. We'll find him -- we owe him that much," Balin said, and the crowd dissipated, leaving Bofur standing beside Rory while Balin watched them.

"They have taken Bilbo?" asked a deep voice, and the group turned to see Gandalf standing in the doorway looking shocked. Rory had hardly seen him the entire time they had been in Moria.

"Aye, an Orc was raiding the treasure room, and Bilbo must've heard him and gone to investigate, only for the monster to catch him," Balin replied, frowning as he watched Gandalf, but Gandalf only looked troubled, then determined.

"I will go with Captain Bren and his group. Bofur, will you --"

"I'll stay with the lads," Bofur replied before Gandalf could finish the request, and Gandalf nodded, then swept out of the room after the other Dwarves. Bofur leaned toward Balin and began whispering, but Rory heard none of it, staring after the Wizard who had helped them so far -- but where had Gandalf been when Bilbo had been taken? He felt a protest forming in his throat.

"I'll go with --"

" _No,_ Rory, Bilbo would never forgive us if we allowed any of you lads to be hurt. Let the soldiers do their jobs," Bofur said firmly, and Rory choked on his own words, feeling his eyes burn again.

"I can't let him go off on his own like this, Bofur! He needs us!"

Bofur shook his head, squeezing the back of Rory's neck. "He needs you to be _safe_."

Rory wished he could argue that point, but he knew it to be true. Bilbo would have his hide if he or either of the Baggins boys went into such danger. Rory realized then that Bofur was holding Bilbo's necklace. He reached out and took the chain, turning the key and rings over in his hands, but they meant nothing to him. Bilbo had always worn them; Rory would keep them safe for his cousin. He looked up to see Balin and Bofur watching him. Rory tucked the trinkets in his pocket, swallowing against the heat in his throat.

"We'll find him, lad," Balin said gently, and Rory could only nod. How would Otho and Drogo react?

"I thought this place was safe," he whispered, and he watched blankly as both Bofur and Balin flinched, then exchanged glances.

"I'll be staying with you and the boys, Rory," Bofur said, and he escorted Rory from the room. Rory followed him, numb and guilty -- how could he have let Bilbo go away alone? Even Drogo and Otho had been escorted back to their rooms. He should have kept Bilbo with him, should have convinced him to stay longer -- but he had seen the weariness in Bilbo's eyes and had let him go. Rory felt like he was drowning -- would he ever see his cousin again?

"Was it -- was it a certain Orc? Did they recognize it?" Rory heard himself ask, and Bofur glanced back. Rory met his gaze with desperation, but Bofur looked away.

"They said it was Bolg from Gundabad."

Bolg. Rory remembered him, the wicked and cunning son of Azog who caused a great deal of bloodshed every time he had visited the halls. Rory slid his hand into his pocket and squeezed Bilbo's key. If it was Bolg -- if it was really Bolg, then hopefully Bilbo was already dead.

~

Rory told Otho and Drogo himself, after rousing them from sleep and gathering them both in his room. The young Baggins boys immediately tried to leave, to find Bilbo and bring him back, but Bofur talked them down, going on about the great trackers they had and how several teams of Dwarves were already following the Orcs and how Balin had ordered an increase in defenses. Even drunk and tired, the Dwarves were on their guard immediately, ready to defend Balin's halls.

Drogo was angry, and he argued with Rory more than once, but Bofur stood at the door and refused to let any of them leave. Otho stayed mute with anger and worry for all of five minutes.

"We're going after him! Get out of the way, Bofur!" Otho shouted, shoving at Bofur's chest, but it did him little good -- the Dwarf was too sturdy to sway at the push of a Hobbit. Strong as stone. Bofur caught Otho's hands and shook his head, mottled green irises darkened with worry. Rory and Drogo stared at them both, paused in their shouting match.

"I can't let you go after him. I'm sorry, lad, but you're staying here with me," Bofur said quietly, and Otho let out a frustrated shout.

"I'm not leaving him alone again! He's my cousin, and you can't --"

" _I can_ , Otho, because Bilbo trusted me to take care of you. All of you," Bofur said, his gaze shifting to Rory and Drogo, who drew closer together. "Do you think Bilbo would ever forgive me if I let you go off into the mines after a group of Orcs? Do you think Bilbo would ever forgive _you_ for getting yourselves into trouble? He loves you, all three of you lads, and he would do anything to keep you safe. I know," Bofur held up a hand when Otho opened his mouth, "you want to keep Bilbo safe too. But you can't, lad. The three of you are only boys. Ye can't fight, don't know how to track -- you'd be useless findin' him. Best you can do for Bilbo is _stay safe_."

Otho shut his mouth, hands clenched and trembling at his sides. Bofur reached up to grip his shoulders, leaning in to rest their foreheads together. "I know, lad," was all Bofur said, and Rory and Drogo watched in shock as Otho bowed his head and cried.

Bofur led Otho over to the bed, and Drogo went to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around Otho's shoulders. Rory reached out to rub Otho's back, but he watched as Bofur went over to the desk and sat down with a heavy sigh, pulling out some paper and beginning to write.

"Bofur? Who are you writing to?" he asked quietly.

Bofur glanced at him with a small snort. "Gotta write to Thorin. If you think Bilbo would be mad for getting you three into trouble... well, Thorin charged me to keep _Bilbo_ safe, and I've failed him. I failed all of you." He looked solemn for a moment, his gaze gone heavy with anger, and Rory felt a shiver run up his spine. "Not sure he won't come down here himself, really. As attached as he is..." The last words were more of a mutter, but Rory heard them anyway, and his mouth quirked despite the heavy feeling on his heart.

"They've been writing a lot to each other, haven't they?"

Rory realized that Otho and Drogo were watching both of them, Otho looking miserable as he leaned against Drogo's side, and Drogo had a dark look to his gaze, but neither of them spoke. Bofur gave the three of them a wary glance, but Rory only smiled. Bofur's gaze grew more suspicious, before it lightened and the Dwarf laughed.

"Aye, can't say I blame them, considerin' all that happened with them. Though you're not to tease Bilbo about it when he gets back," Bofur said sternly, and Rory leaned back in shock.

"When -- of course I won't! Well, maybe a little, 'cause he blushes so much about it. It's not like I can help it!" Rory grinned, and he heard Drogo snort beside him. Otho looked a little less morose.

Bofur rolled his eyes. "Whatever's happenin' between them, it's none'a our business till Bilbo says it is. Promise you won't push him, Rory."

Rory felt himself puff up, offended. "I wouldn't push him to do anything he wouldn't want!"

"I'm just saying, lad, leave things be. That goes for you two as well," Bofur said sternly, eyeing Drogo and Otho, who exchanged glances and nodded solemnly.

"Wouldn't want Bilbo to get shy," Drogo said.

"He's already shy enough," Otho muttered.

Rory sniffed and crossed his arms. "We know how to take care of him. Maybe you should keep an eye on Thorin, make sure he doesn't upset our Bilbo." He frowned at Bofur, who shot him a grin and went back to writing, the tight line of his shoulders relaxed just a bit. Just enough, Rory thought, to lessen the impression of _stone_ , of anger and guilt -- the same feelings that dwelled in his own chest.

It was not their fault Bilbo was taken. He knew that -- and still, all of them blamed themselves.

~

Three days after Thorin received Bilbo's letter, and two days after he sent one back on his personal raven, the Dwarf King received another letter.

The morning had progressed well into breakfast already, and Thorin enjoyed the quiet with his family. Dís was reading a book, propped up by the fruit bowl, while Frerin and Thorin argued over where to expand the next royal mine. Kíli and Fíli were bowed together, deep in discussion over -- something Thorin did not wish to know. Just the slant of their eyebrows and the grins twitching at their mouths was enough to give him a headache.

He was happy, though. He had missed all four of them so much. To sit with them like this, in peaceful company, was enough for Thorin; was enough for him to know that everything he had done had been worthwhile. So long as they were safe. So long as they were well, and hale, and full of the warmth he had always loved.

Thorin paused in his frowning match with Frerin long enough to finish his morning cider, smirking as Frerin rolled his eyes. He leaned forward to tease his younger brother, when a sharp knock drew him back, transforming his smirk into a scowl.

"We are busy," Thorin said, cross with the interruption. Had he not specifically told them not to intrude on this breakfast? It was the first time they had all been together in the morning in eight years.

"A missive from Fieldmaster Bofur, Your Majesty. It is marked urgent," a muffled voice said, and Thorin's scowl lost its edge. He stood and went to the door, snatching the letter as he opened the heavy wood. His family watched him curiously.

"Dismissed," he murmured, already closing the door in the messenger's face. The scroll was tied with Bofur's customary brown ribbon, nondescript and vague with only _Úr_ on the side -- but with the brown cloth was a second tie of yellow, vivid in its alarming shade. Thorin untied them both immediately and pulled the letter open, his heartbeat quickening.

> _Thorin,_
> 
> _Moria was invaded. It was Bolg of Gundabad. He got into the treasure room while we were feasting and tore it apart looking for something, and when we caught him, he got away._
> 
> _He took Bilbo Baggins. I don't know why Bilbo was there or how Bolg found him. Bilbo's gone. Gandalf went after them with Captain Bren of the Blue Mountains, Níli's old friend. I'm staying with the lads._
> 
> _I'm sorry, majesty. I didn't protect him. I leave myself to your reprimand._
> 
> _We will get him back. That I promise you._

The words throbbed in his mind as Thorin stared down at the paper, not noticing how the paper had begun to tear from his clenched fingers or how the ribbons had fluttered to the ground.

_Bilbo's gone._

"My armor," Thorin said numbly. He meant to reach for the door and open it, leave to find his armor, call for his steed and sword, but he could not move. He stared at Bofur's handwriting, at _Bolg of Gundabad_ and remembered the son of his enemy, the Orc that had viciously murdered so many of his soldiers.

_He took Bilbo Baggins._

"Get me my armor," Thorin said, louder but with a tremble in his throat, and he reached for the door, hardly seeing it -- and he startled when warm hands took the letter from his grip, and a thick arm clasped his waist, steering him back to the table.

"Thorin, your face has gone white. What is it? What does the letter say?" Frerin asked, looking past Thorin's still form at Dís, who was reading the letter, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

" _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins was taken by the Orc Bolg in Moria," Dís said quietly, and Thorin let out a broken noise. "This is a tragedy. Was he not just saved from Azog? We will have to prepare..." But she went silent when she looked up to see Thorin's face. Kíli and Fíli had stood, silent and shocked by the sudden argument.

"We will not _mourn him_ ," Thorin said lowly, his tone hitching. "He is alive. Let me go, I will get my armor and go after him --"

"Thorin, don't be ridiculous!" Frerin exclaimed, gripping Thorin's arm tightly. He pushed Thorin into a chair and grunted when Thorin immediately strained to stand again, but he was physically stronger than his brother, and they both knew it. Frerin took the letter from Dís and read it quickly, then dropped it on the table and gripped Thorin's shoulders.

"Bren and Gandalf have gone after him. You are weeks away from them -- how can you possibly help? Thorin, see reason and be calm. If _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins is still alive, they will find him."

"Let me go," Thorin growled, blue eyes flashing, and Frerin looked at him in surprise.

"He is just a Halfling." 

" _Hobbit_ , and he is not simply that," Thorin snapped. "I'll not sit here while he suffers at that monster's hands. I promised him -- I'll keep him safe -- _let me up!_ " Frerin stepped back in surprise when Thorin reared forward, but he caught Thorin by the waist again, grunting.

"Thorin!" Dís stepped in front of Thorin and scowled at him. Thorin stilled but did not stop glaring. "You would risk your kingdom for a Hobbit? You would risk everything you have just achieved for someone you barely know who is miles away, and likely d--"

 _"He is not dead!"_ Thorin bellowed, and in the silence that hung after his temper erupted, he felt himself trembling with anger, with wretched guilt that he had _failed Bilbo_ , had not protected him, and now Bilbo was --

"He cannot be," Thorin said more quietly, and he felt his expression crumple. Dís stared at him, eyes wide with shock, and Frerin's hold on him lessened just slightly. Just enough that Thorin pulled away, grabbing the letter and heading for the door. Dís stepped forward, reaching up to touch his back, and Thorin stopped with his hand on the handle.

"Who is this Hobbit that you would risk the trust of your kingdom, the safety of yourself and the responsibility of your position, to leave Erebor and go to him?" Dís asked, her voice gentling.

Thorin stared down at the handle beneath his fingers, clenching them over the gold and feeling his back stiffen. He could not answer that question. He could not explain what Bilbo was to him -- he did not know. He only knew that Bilbo was important.

"I must go to him," he said simply in reply, but Frerin raised his voice now, stern as ever in his need to reach Thorin, past his irrational thoughts that swirled and ebbed in his mind, leaving him distraught and anxious.

"Brother-mine, I cannot begin to understand what you feel right now. Yet I only see a foolish quest if you choose to leave Erebor. You have returned after many years away from your throne. You are several leagues from _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins' location, and there is no way you would reach him before Gandalf or Bren. There is no use in you leaving, especially when we just got you back, home and safe. It is tragic, yes, what happened to the Hobbit after you saved him, but that is no reason to rush into danger. Let Bren and the Wizard handle it. You cannot leave, not now. See reason," Frerin said again, his voice dropping as he watched Thorin's shoulders, tense with frustration and anger.

Then Thorin sagged, his shoulders dropping with despair, and his family watched him, silent to see such emotion in him.

"I cannot fail him again," Thorin uttered quietly, his voice breaking on the last word. He knew he should not leave. There was already so much work to be done in the kingdom, and how selfish would he look to his people, to rush off as soon as he had returned? He needed to stay -- for his people. But he needed to go for Bilbo, yet he could not. His shoulders slumped more, heavy with guilt, knowing that he could not leave -- could not protect Bilbo as he had promised.

"Then I will go." The three siblings turned at the new voice, blinking in surprise at Kíli, who had stepped around the table, determination glinting in his gaze. Fíli watched his brother, expression quiet with thought. He did not look surprised.

"Kíli?" Dís said in question, while Frerin frowned. Thorin just stared at his nephew, no longer ready to rush from the room, but his hand had not left the door handle, either.

"Uncle Thorin cannot go, right? He has to run the kingdom, but we cannot abandon Mister Baggins so easily. I will go in your stead, Uncle Thorin. My tracking skills are as good as Captain Bren's, if not better. He trained me, after all. Even if they find him first -- I'll at least be there to see him and make sure he's okay for you." Kíli's mien was serious for once, looking across the room at Thorin, past his mother who had straightened with surprise and Frerin who watched him with a curious gaze.

"Kíli," Thorin whispered, torn between protecting his nephew and trusting in him. He hated the idea immediately. How could he let Kíli go into such danger, when he himself could not?

"If Kíli is to go, then I will accompany him," Frerin said suddenly, and Thorin looked at him in surprise, his mouth dropping open. "He is young and has not yet proven himself in the wild. As his uncle and one of his mentors, I will go with him, to see his skill with my own eyes, and to meet _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins for you. Does that satisfy your urgency, Thorin?" Frerin questioned, watching Thorin's expression closely.

Thorin closed his mouth and returned Frerin's narrowed look, but he still felt lost, with a wild feeling of _I must find him_ \-- but he knew that he could not leave Erebor. He looked back to Kíli, who met his gaze stubbornly, and felt his back relax a bit, the tension fading away just enough.

"I entrust Bilbo's care to you, Kíli, and to Frerin. Please find him," Thorin said quietly, sighing as Kíli nodded, Fíli coming to stand at his brother's shoulder in solidarity. Dís watched them all, frowning but not objecting, clearly worried for her son but trusting in Frerin to protect him. Frerin crossed his arms, not taking his gaze from Thorin, and Thorin did his best to avoid that keen, assessing look.

It was not simply worry. Bilbo was no simple Hobbit, no simple person for whom Thorin would risk his kingdom and family. Bilbo was important -- and yet Thorin was not ready to contemplate why. He only knew that Bilbo was --

"If you must go, then take Níli's armor," Dís said with a sigh, and Kíli looked surprised, then sad, then delighted. Thorin tore himself from his thoughts, watching his siblings and nephews, his head tilted down. 

"Truly, mother?" Kíli said, leaning forward eagerly, and all three of the siblings sighed at the familiar, youthful energy of the youngest of their family. Dís scoffed, but a smile lingered on her mouth, her gaze misty for but a moment. Frerin watched, while Fíli began teasing his brother.

Thorin stood with his back to the door, opening the letter again and brushing his fingers over the words. He felt wrung dry of his emotions, yet filled with them at the same time. The sounds of his family planning to fulfill the promise he could not keep soothed him a little -- but not enough. He would not rest again until he knew Bilbo was safe. Not unless he left on his own, but -- Thorin could not. He was a King with a nation that needed him, and he could not choose one person over thousands.

Even if he should be the one to save that person, as he had promised.

"Bilbo," Thorin whispered, closing his eyes and fearing.

~

Bilbo startled, opening his eyes with a deep voice ringing in his ears. His head ached and his throat was scratchy. There was hard stone beneath him and the quiet, echoing atmosphere of a large cave -- and a burning hand pressed to the back of his neck.

He shrieked, and quickly clapped his hand to his mouth. Silence continued, and the hand twitched, but the owner of that hand did not seem to wake. Bilbo stared into the darkness, knowing who owned that hand and why it was holding him captive.

Bolg.

He remembered running through caves, and then -- nothing. Bolg must have knocked him out. If they were resting, and Bolg was not yet awake enough to move, then now -- now was his chance. Bilbo reached to his neck to find his ring, pressing his fingers beneath his collar to find his chain and draw it up.

But his fingers touched nothing but warm skin, and Bilbo felt icy dread wash over his entire body. His ring was _gone_. Thorin's necklace and all of his precious items were gone, missing, and dimly Bilbo remembered the sound of tinkling, but he could not imagine where his rings were. A deep, unsettling feeling swept through him -- stronger than fury, more hateful than terror.

_His ring was gone._

The hand on the back of his neck squeezed then, and he heard Bolg mutter, "Silence, _nûl-lûpûrz_." Bilbo realized that he was keening, a low, warbling sound in the back of his throat, and he stopped abruptly, rolling away from Bolg and scrambling for some place far from him.

Bolg grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him up, standing with a grunt. "Stop moving." Bilbo kicked at Bolg's knees, but Bolg only growled at him and began to run through the caves, ignoring Bilbo's struggling until Bilbo felt burning in his chest and stopped fighting, now pressing hard to breathe.

He was jostled back and forth, but Bolg kept a tight grip around his middle as he moved silently and easily through the tunnels. He stank of Orc and death, and Bilbo gave up after a while, tucking his head down and trying to breathe shallowly through his mouth.

At last it grew lighter, slowly and then more rapidly, and suddenly they were outside. Bilbo looked up, squinting into the dull grey light of day, and though Bolg did not stop, the breath was knocked from Bilbo's lungs.

A great forest, as far as the eye could see, stretching across leagues of hills and valleys. Around them stretched great mountains, taller than he had ever seen, and Bilbo realized, looking up at the brightening sky across the lands, that he had entered the East.

He had no time to appreciate it. Bolg jumped down from the crag he had exited onto, and Bilbo heard the triumphant snarls of other Orcs. Bolg came to a stop in the middle of a small camp, and immediately the half dozen Orcs there leapt to their feet.

 _"Bolg of Gundabad! What is this? What is this tasty treat you have brought?"_ said one Orc, leaning in to sniff at Bilbo, and he shrieked in his throat. Bolg pushed the Orc away, though, dropping Bilbo on the ground next to a silver-haired Warg. The Warg growled at him but was too lazy to do more than sniff at Bilbo's hair, and he shrank back, eyes darting between the Orcs. He recognized none of them.

 _"He is not to eat,"_ Bolg replied, and the Orcs let out loud complaints about hunger, only for Bolg to silence them with a glare. _"He is Azog's pain-bearer."_

The camp grew heavy with the sudden weight of Orcs shocked into silence, and Bilbo stilled as their sharp gazes focused on him. Bolg stared down at him in distaste, and Bilbo fearfully avoided his milky gaze, keeping an eye on the other Orcs.

 _"Nûl-lûpûrz,"_ one whispered, and another let out a growl.

_"Azog's whore."_

_"Pain-bearer."_

_"Bolg, we should kill him,"_ said the first Orc, and Bilbo flinched, while the other Orcs began to shout and snarl, grabbing for him. Bolg tore his pale gaze from Bilbo and snarled at the others, stepping in front of Bilbo.

 _"You will not take my vengeance from me! He is mine to torture and kill, and none of you will have him. Take your filthy, worthless blades back to Gundabad if you seek to challenge me!_ " Bolg roared, and the Orcs stopped, muttering amongst themselves, but none of them dared to bother with Bilbo again, except to glare. Bilbo glared back, catching himself before he bared his teeth. His gaze flicked up to Bolg's face, then looked away stubbornly. He would never give in to the likes of Bolg.

Bolg took a moment to tie Bilbo's hands with a rope, then pushed him up on the Warg and sat behind him, nudging the Warg into moving. Bilbo leaned away from him, his gaze darting up to the grey sky, heavy with clouds and the threat of rain. His mind raced to think of ways to get away -- and where were they going? Not to Gundabad which must have fallen to Thorin's war march? Where else would Orcs call home?

Once or twice, Bilbo thought to tip himself off the Warg, but he thought of the look on Rory's face if he found Bilbo's mangled body in the woods outside the Misty Mountains. What could he do? He would have to wait until an opportunity arose. Somehow, someway, he would escape -- or he would take away Bolg's chance to have his 'vengeance' himself. Bilbo would rather die than subject himself to Bolg's tortures.

As they rode, Bilbo watched the countryside, daunted by the mountains rising around them, but distantly pleased with the green of the grass and the budding flowers in the trees. It was beautiful here, like the Shire as it had been. If only he was with his cousins instead -- not trapped in the hands of an Orc that hated him above all others.

Hours later, Bolg pushed Bilbo closer to the Warg, leaning down to mutter, "Down, _nûl-lûpûrz_." Bilbo stilled for a moment, pressing to the Warg's thick fur as his heart beat in his chest. What terror now followed them?

 _" Sulfiilu,"_ grumbled an Orc, but it silenced itself at Bolg's glare.

Bilbo inhaled softly and looked up, following Bolg's wary gaze to a shape in the sky, distant and dark against the clouds. He saw great wings and felt a rush of awe, of longing to meet the Eagle that flew above them. He wanted to call out _help me! I'm here!_ but Bolg pressed against the back of his neck, and Bilbo tore his gaze from the Great Eagle of legend to see Bolg glaring at him suspiciously.

"Stay down," Bolg ordered again, and Bilbo cringed, turning his head away and feeling the ache of desolationdeep in his chest. How easily he gave in when faced with someone larger and stronger than him, with the same pale skin and wicked face of the Orc who had hurt him for so long. And it was _Bolg_ , the son of that wicked Orc, who had hated Bilbo from the moment they had met -- and Bilbo hated himself for giving in, for fearing Bolg when he should be fighting back.

Bolg did not have his kin in the palm of his hand, ready to destroy them if Bilbo did not obey. Bolg was not his rapist or his master, but still Bilbo cringed at the sight of him, still Bilbo flinched away and bowed his head when Bolg gave the order. Was he truly so weak? Had he not come so far from Azog's torment?

Bilbo heard the shrieking call of an eagle in the distance then, and despite Bolg's order, he peered up past his curls, watching the dark figure in the sky as it flew away. The sight strengthened his resolve to escape Bolg's clutches and get back to his family, to his cousins who needed him and to his friends who were, undoubtedly, even now, searching for him in the wake of his kidnapping.

He owed Bolg nothing, and he had nothing to lose if he escaped. He had everything to lose if he let Bolg keep him forever -- and Bilbo had made promises. Even if he did not have his ring, or his sword, or any weapon at all, Bilbo would not break the vows he had given, and he would not let anyone else hurt him. Not if he could help it.

~

Captain Bren was nothing if not efficient in his tracking. Gandalf was rather impressed with him, as they found their way out of a small cave entrance in the side of one of the mountains, atop a tall crag that looked across the land to Mirkwood. It was nearly midday, by the sun's rays cast through the clouds, and Gandalf was eager to move forward, to gain ground now that they were out of the mountains.

The heavyset Dwarf with thick yellow hair and ruddy skin stood from where he had knelt at the edge of the crag. "Aye, the lad still lives. No blood's been spilt, and they're not two hours from us, I'd say. Let's go!"

The Dwarves began to climb down the stone cliff, sliding with their hard boots, all too familiar with the rough terrain. Gandalf made to follow, when a breeze caught his attention, and he looked up to see a shadow cast over him by wings that spanned over a hundred feet.

"Ah, Landroval," Gandalf said pleasantly, and the Eagle that landed before him huffed and tilted his head. The Dwarves all shouted in surprise, but Gandalf smiled up at his old friend.

 _"Incánus,"_ Landroval intoned, nodding respectfully, speaking in the Elvish tongue of old. _"What brings you to our crags?_

Gandalf's smile faded, and he gestured to the Dwarves with his staff. _"My friends and I seek a Halfling that was taken from our company by Orcs. He would be very small, with curly hair and bare feet. Have you seen any Orc scouts on this day?"_

Landroval watched him thoughtfully, then turned his head to eye the Dwarves, who all shrank back warily. _"Orcs on their Wargs, yes, to the south. I saw them not long ago. They had... yes, a small creature with them, one I did not recognize. Halfling?"_

Gandalf's heart leapt in his throat, and he nodded quickly. _"Yes, a Halfling -- a Hobbit in their language. A gentle soul, and one of many that will come to live here. South, you said?"_

Landroval turned his head toward the south, bright eyes narrowing. _"Orcs should not prey upon the gentle-hearted. Be swift, Incánus, and I will scout above. But be wary -- the Beorning walks in the trees."_ The Eagle swept up into the sky, and Gandalf turned to the Dwarves, who were staring at him open-mouthed.

"What are you standing around for? He said the Orcs have gone south! Follow him! He will lead us to Bilbo!" Gandalf shouted, and though Captain Bren eyed him suspiciously, he went into the woods in the same direction as Landroval, and the Dwarves of his company followed, fast on their feet. Gandalf ran after them, all the while worrying for what might happen.

If Beorn was in the area, then they had a chance to save Bilbo -- but only if he could convince Beorn that the Hobbit was not an ally of the Orcs. Grim in his determination, Gandalf ran, thinking that if only he had returned to Balin's halls sooner, he might have prevented this.

He would do everything in his power to save his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks out from behind nondescript planetary object on other side of universe* Is it safe to come back now? Yes? ... No? Okay.
> 
> *whispers* Thank you to tribumvirate and kaavyawriting for their perfect beta skills, as always!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	33. The path home

As Bolg and his scouts fled the mountains, a forest filled up the world in front of them, and Bilbo began to shift anxiously, dread growing in the back of his mind. The closer they rode to that forest, the worse his nerves frayed. He felt it -- a sickness in that land, in those dark trees weighed down with thick white webs, in the shadows that flickered with movements he could not track. He began squirming when they reached the tree line and nearly fell off the Warg, ready to hit the ground running, but Bolg caught him around the waist and pinned him down again.

"Be still," Bolg ordered, pressing forward into the shadows, and Bilbo could only clutch onto the Warg's fur in fear.

He heard another Orc mutter, _"Nasty bird can't follow us here,"_ triumphantly, and felt ill from the notion. Every moment his situation seemed more and more hopeless -- but he was determined. He only needed a chance.

Even with the Wargs, travel through the thick woods was slow. Bolg seemed to know his way, winding along paths even Bilbo could not see, and the shadows darkened steadily as the clouds above thickened, dropping misty rain upon the leaves and filling Bilbo's nose with the stench of rotting eggs.

Bilbo could not tell how much time passed. The rain wavered with distant storms, and Bolg hardly rested, pushing his subordinates hard through the woods. Exhausted and sore, bruises littering his body, Bilbo closed his eyes and slept fitfully across the Warg's back. Wind woke him later, and it was light enough that he could see past the trees, but he could hardly see the sky through the thick leaves. He looked up, past the outline of Bolg's head, and saw long, spindly legs high above them with many glittering eyes -- a massive spider that sent a spike of fear through Bilbo's heart. But Bolg raced past the spider and Bilbo did not see it again, though sometimes he heard hissing in the trees.

His body was damp from the wet air, mists of fog making the path difficult to find even for the Orcs, and Bilbo could hear their mutterings and growls. The lesser Orcs clearly wanted to stop, but Bolg refused to acknowledge their complaints, the fear of being caught spurning him forward into the darkness.

Bilbo looked up when he felt the first drop of rain. A few minutes of pattering against the leaves, dampening his hair, and then the skies opened, pouring down on Bolg and his Orcs like a waterfall. Bilbo felt his grip on the Warg's fur slipping as Bolg cursed and changed direction, heading deeper into the woods.

 _"Why north, Bolg?"_ one Orc called out.

 _"We are being followed,"_ Bolg replied, and Bilbo craned his head over his shoulder as if he could see who worried Bolg. They rode for some time until they came to a small clearing, and Bolg halted the company, staring into the trees with alarm.

 _"What is it, Bolg? What follows us?"_ the Orcs asked, but Bolg did not answer. Instead he made a motion that had all of the Orcs dismounting, and they gathered close together in the rain, while Bilbo slid gratefully to the ground. His knees ached when his feet splashed in the mud, and he stayed close to the Warg, ignoring its soft whuff as it sniffed him. The spring chill left him shivering, heart beating quick as a rabbit's running feet. He bowed his head and listened to Bolg mutter to his subordinates.

 _"A beast follows us,"_ Bolg said, and an echoing roar was heard far away. _"We cannot lead it to the master. You will divert it."_

_"But Bolg, we were meant to stay in the mountains! You failed our master, and now we flee? Let us kill this beast!"_

_"The mountains did not hold what we sought. Master's ring-wraiths were useless,"_ Bolg said with a scowl, tone low. Bilbo had to strain to hear him over the rain.

 _"The ring-wraiths stayed in Moria to hunt for the master's one,"_ the largest of the Orcs said, sounding both disturbed and gleeful.

 _"And to find the fire-demon. That it did not come to Azog's aid! Foul beast, traitorous and worthless!"_ another Orc declared.

 _"The dwarves did not have it. Oakenshield must have taken it,"_ Bolg sneered, looking back at Bilbo who stiffened. He dared not look up. The Orcs around Bolg hissed and growled as soon as 'Oakenshield' was uttered.

What object did they search for? What were the _nazgûl_ and what did they want? Who was this 'master' to send Bolg across Middle Earth scurrying about as if a servant?

He needed to escape. He needed to find Gandalf and share this news, and hopefully his friend would explain what it all meant. He needed to --

_"When I am done with the pain-bearer, we will hunt down Oakenshield. If he has the master's one, he will give it to us before he dies. He will suffer for Azog's death. He will die like the cursed dwarf-scum he is."_

_"Crush him! Tear off his arms! Foul dwarf king, let him rot in our bellies!"_ The orcs cheered and shouted, but Bilbo was stuck on Bolg's words.

Thorin.

"Don't you dare go near him," Bilbo heard, and he was surprised to realize it was his own voice breaking through the rain. The Orcs went silent, and Bolg turned slowly to stare at Bilbo.

 _"What did you say, pain-bearer?"_ Bolg asked slowly, and Bilbo answered half a second before realizing Bolg was still speaking the Black tongue.

"I said don't go near Thorin," Bilbo said, stumbling over the last word as Bolg stepped toward him. The Warg behind him growled as Bilbo shrank back, darting to the side, but Bolg had him by the neck in an instant.

_"So you do understand us," _Bolg murmured, fingers squeezing bruises into Bilbo's skin and making him yelp. For a moment Bilbo thought he would surely die, but then Bolg loosened his grip, and Bilbo startled himself by laughing. Bolg stared at him as if he had gone mad, but Bilbo was too tired of his pain to care.__

__Forever a victim and always in pain, always losing himself to the darkness, with no end to it in sight. He had not escaped Azog only to suffer at the hands of his son. He had not borne such pain and risen so high only to plummet to such depths. He had not come this far only to fail. He had not lived only to die here. If nothing else, at least he would die free. He would _never_ be a slave again nor suffer the torments of Orcs._ _

__If Bolg killed him here, then at least Bilbo knew that his family was safe, protected by the Dwarves -- but if only he could warn them. If only he could reach Thorin before Bolg did._ _

__If only he could send Bolg far, far away._ _

__"Of course I understand you. How could I not, when my old _master_ spoke always in your tongue? Your father," Bilbo spat, and Bolg growled at him, but Bilbo was not done. "He deserved his death. But Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield cares not for rings of gold. What your master seeks was lost by your father himself. Find his ghost and ask him what was done with a monster's treasure. Thorin wouldn't --"_ _

__"Silence! _Do not speak of your master in such_ \--"_ _

__"Azog is dead," Bilbo said over Bolg's snarl, the hardened tone ringing through the clearing. His chest shook from the force of his emotion. Bolg went silent and stiff, lethal intent tightening his fingers over Bilbo's neck, but Bilbo was so tired. "I am glad of it. Aren't you as well, Bolg, son of Azog, cursed whelp of the Defiler?" He smiled grimly as the familiar phrase struck Bolg -- Azog's hatred of his child was well known to the Orc clans._ _

__"Silence," Bolg hissed._ _

__Bilbo stared at him for a long moment. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain poured harder, drenching them all. In the distance something clattered through the trees, making the Orcs beyond Bolg shift nervously, but they dared not move when Bolg was so furious._ _

__"You are not my master," Bilbo murmured. "You have no hold over me. Only Azog ever did, and _I killed him_. Release me." _ _

__To his endless surprise, Bolg did, dropping Bilbo on the ground and stepping back. Bilbo found his balance quickly and skirted back, lifting his head. The Warg had turned away, growling at something in the trees, moving ever closer to them. Bilbo met the milky white malice of Bolg's glare, for once knowing exactly what he wanted, the fog that had haunted him for months lifted for this moment._ _

__"Don't go near Thorin Oakenshield or any Hobbit ever again. _I won't let you,_ " Bilbo intoned, his voice raising with determined fury._ _

__Two things happened then. Firstly, lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the clearing and the bright fervor in Bilbo's eyes. As the shadows swept over in its wake, something massive crashed through the trees, roaring with the force of the thunder overhead. The Orcs' attention tore from the glaring contest between Bilbo and Bolg, and Bolg himself looked to the new enemy, grabbing for his sword when he saw what came for them._ _

__A snarling bear, immense in size and fearsome as it swept huge claws across the nearest Orc. Bolg tensed and looked back at his prey -- but the Hobbit was nowhere to be seen._ _

__Bilbo had fled, gone in the instant that Bolg had turned that murderous intent away from him._ _

__Thunder crashed again, while Bolg son of Azog raged, and a Hobbit ran for his life._ _

____

~

When Gandalf and the Dwarves of Captain Bren's company came upon the clearing later, having followed the Orcs with great difficulty, instead of a battle and a Hobbit to save, they found corpses and a very tall Man standing nude amongst the bodies of Orc and Warg alike. His body was splattered with black blood and other muck, and he seemed to have little care for his state of undress. The rain had lessened enough to see his figure, though his face was darkened by eve's shadow.

The company stopped, weapons raised, but Gandalf strode past them to greet the Man.

"Beorn! What has happened here?" the Wizard asked anxiously, keen eyes sweeping over the carnage, but he did not find what he feared.

"I killed them," the Man named Beorn said, voice deep and rough with a Northern accent. Instead of greeting Gandalf, he looked to the distance with intensity, as if something still lurked in the woods beyond. 

The Dwarves relaxed to see Gandalf greet the stranger as a friend, even in recognition as the ally of Erebor, though someone could be heard muttering, "What's he doin' naked out here?" They eyed the wet, stinking corpses dubiously, not believing a naked Man could inflict such damage.

Gandalf blinked water from his eyes, looking bewildered. "But these Orcs carried with them a Hobbit! What has happened to him? He is very small with curly hair --"

Beorn looked briefly interested at the mention of a Hobbit, but his focus on whatever held his attention in the distance sharpened. "I killed them," he repeated. "One Orc escaped, but no others."

A moment passed, and sorrow began to seep into the hearts of the company. Gandalf shook his head frantically. "But there is no body! Surely he was not..."

"Poor lad," one Dwarf muttered, and the others echoed sad agreement. For the hero of the final battle to be lost to an Orc's revenge? They had failed to protect him.

"They must have done him in along the way, Gandalf. It's been days, and the rain has washed nearly everything away. We were lucky enough to find them, but there's no way that the Hobbit survived this. Khuzdibâh Baggins will be mourned properly for all that he did for our people. We will return to Khazad-dûm," Captain Bren said, but Gandalf shook his head in denial, sweeping across the clearing to look at the bodies.

"There would be something left," he muttered, wrinkling his long nose at the stench.

"Wizard --"

"Confound you Dwarves, I'll not give up on him! Bilbo deserves more than this, more than our failure and this horror forced upon him! He must have run away, else we would find some sign of his death. Do you call yourself a tracker, Captain Bren of Nogrod, or do you give up now? Will you tell Rorimac Brandybuck that you failed to find his cousin, alive or dead? Will you go to Erebor and tell Thorin Oakenshield yourself of this loss? Until we know for certain what has happened to Bilbo Baggins, I will not rest! Will you search with me or leave as cowards?" Gandalf roared, turning to glare at the Dwarves.

Captain Bren held himself stiffly, as did the Dwarves behind him, shamed and determined in the same moment. The moment held until his chest puffed up with indignation. "We will stay! Spread out, look for any sign of him!" 

Gandalf watched them disappear into the trees to search, then looked back at Beorn, who stared at him with piercing eyes.

"Did Thorin Oakenshield tell you of Bilbo Baggins?" Gandalf asked. Beorn did not reply, gaze sweeping from the Wizard to the forest beyond.

"A rabbit runs in the woods," Beorn said suddenly, but before Gandalf could ask him what he meant by _that_ , the Man transformed into a great bear and took off running, vanishing into the shadows of the forest. There were several exclamations of shock in Khuzdul.

"And they call me mad," Gandalf muttered. He glanced up into the sky and saw Landroval's figure high in the clouds, likely hunting the other Orc. He did not see the body of Bolg amongst the corpses, which worried him further; what had the Orc sought in the treasure hold?

First, and more importantly, to find Bilbo and return him to safety. He would not fail his friend again!

"Gandalf!" Captain Bren called then, and Gandalf noticed the bewildered expression upon the Dwarf's face. "What was that -- that creature?"

"That was Beorn who lives north of here. He occasionally changes into a bear," Gandalf replied nonchalantly, amused as Captain Bren sputtered.

"Sorcery," the Dwarf muttered, but Gandalf ignored him, focusing then on a small bit of cloth in the Dwarf's hand. It was wet and muddy, but he was relieved to see no red staining the cloth -- a bit of Bilbo's shirt. 

"What is that?" the Wizard asked, striding over, and Captain Bren shook himself of his shock, features steeling.

"We found this not far away, and footprints in the mud, heading north. This way!"

~

Bolg limped through the trees, his arm bleeding thick and black down his side, heading deeper into the dense trees covered with spider's silk. Far above him, beyond the canopy of leaves and webs, he heard the echoing cry of an Eagle, and he cursed under his breath.

 _"Wretched pain-bearer -- I won't forget your treachery,_ " he seethed, already fearing the reaction of his master, who would not be pleased with Bolg's failure. No ring, the _Nazgûl_ had abandoned him -- and Azog's whore was gone.

Azog's slave -- the meaningless life his father had spared, fancying the Halfling _pretty_ \-- and to his own destructive end. There was never a moment that Bolg did not believe Azog had deserved to die. He had only ever felt cold fury toward his father -- but Azog had not deserved betrayal by his own servant, named for loyalty and devotion to one's master. The _nûl-lûpûrz_ did not deserve the name Azog had given him, nor did he deserve to understand their sacred language.

_Cursed whelp of the Defiler._

He would remember this moment. He would not let the Halfling escape, and he would not spare any Hobbit he came across, nor the Dwarf King when they met. No matter that -- for just a moment -- the Halfling had scared him, enough that he had let go. For his foolish reaction, the _nûl-lûpûrz_ had escaped.

Bolg would never forget it, either.

~

Though the forest was large, dark and silent, Bilbo did not stop running, while in the distance behind him the storm continued to rage. Still it rained, fog thickening the air between the trees, but Bilbo could see well enough that he avoided the branches and bushes. The sounds of snarling and fighting grew faint behind him, and Bilbo could not hear anything following him -- but he did not stop running.

He did not slow until the thunder was far in the distance, the fog lessening, the cobwebs less abundant, though he could tell the forest was darkening with evening. How many days had Bolg carried him through the trees? How far was he from the Misty Mountains?

He collapsed against a tree and bent over, heaving deep breaths, his chest and throat burning while his feet and legs ached. His hands were still bound, and after a few moments of catching his breath, Bilbo straightened and looked about for something to cut them.

He found a sharp branch of a fallen tree nearby and lifted his wrists to rub the rope against it, though his arms protested the movement, and his bruises made him flinch. But soon the rope began to unwind, and Bilbo was able to pull free of it, dropping the remains on the ground and rubbing his wrists gingerly.

For a moment, everything was silent. The forest seemed to hold its breath, and Bilbo held his as well, listening for movement in the trees. There was nothing; not even the hisses of the spiders he had glimpsed before. He was alone in the forest that was sick with darkness.

At last Bilbo could rest. He found his way to a small pond, where the rain water trickled down several rocks, and cupped his hands to take several drinks. The water soothed his throat a bit and eased the tightness in his belly, though his stomach rumbled a moment later, leaving Bilbo feeling rather sorry for himself.

He was wet, cold, hungry, exhausted, hurt, lost, and alone.

But he was not dead.

Bilbo found a hole in the large tree near its base, and he crawled into the rotting wood, where it was a little dryer and he was not out in the open any longer. He wrung his clothes as dry as he could and pulled his legs in tight to his body, ignoring the twinges of pain from his bruises. Then he crossed his arms over his knees and hid his face in his damp sleeves, shivering.

Perhaps he could rest for a little while. It was quiet here, and Bilbo was so tired; he had run so far, and surely in this rain, the Orcs could not scent him all the way out here?

For a moment Bilbo grinned against his sleeves, remembering Bolg's face just hours before. How _good_ it had felt to stand up to the son of his old master, to his tormentor of the past few days. To take back the control Bolg had stolen from him; instead of dying, Bilbo had taken his own life into his hands, and he had survived.

He felt rather proud of himself, for all that he was in a terrible bind now. Surely, though, if he moved north and west, he would find the Misty Mountains again? Then all he needed to do was find Beorn's house, and he remembered some of Thorin's map he had looked at back in Moria. It shouldn't be that far from where he was, surely.

First, though, a bit of a nap, enough for his clothes to dry and the rain to stop. Then he would move, and he would find his way to safety.

~

Not far from Bilbo's hiding spot, a massive bear padded through the trees, snuffling against the ground for a particular scent, drawing ever closer to Bilbo as he rested. Yet when Bilbo was well and truly asleep, he was not woken by the great stomps of a bear pushing through the trees, nor even by the soft footfalls of a tall Man with keen eyes and wild hair.

Beorn found Bilbo all the same. He stopped in front of the great tree and stared down at the hairy feet peeking out of the trunk, head tilted to the side in consideration. This tiny being was Bilbo Baggins, or so Gandalf had insinuated; Beorn's honored guest and future neighbor, and yet here he was, lost in the woods, vulnerable to any creature that might prey upon him.

Bilbo murmured fitfully when Beorn reached into the tree and scooped him up, but he did not wake, sensing no danger. The great Northman stared down at the tiny Hobbit in his arms, noting the curly hair and the torn clothes, the shadows beneath his eyes, and the thinness of his limbs. There were scars on his hands and arms, and rope burns on his wrists, and he was very light in Beorn's arms.

"So we finally meet, little bunny. I shall have to fatten you right up, and hopefully you shall have a fine tale for me indeed," Beorn said to himself with a small smile, and instead of going back to the Dwarves and Wizard who searched for the Hobbit that he held, he went north instead, back to his home, where he could tend to his new neighbor.

When Beorn reached his house, he nodded to the curious ponies that waited on the porch. They nosed at Bilbo's hair, and Beorn gently brushed them aside as he went into the house. Two of the dogs began to bark in greeting, but Beorn shushed them, and in apology they went around the room and lit the beeswax candles. Beorn carried his charge through the house and to one of the spare bedrooms.

 _"Fetch something to heal him with, and some honeyed milk,"_ Beorn said to one of the dogs, clicking his tongue in the old language that they still understood, for he had taught them himself.

His white sheep supplied a pair of pants for Beorn himself, and his black sheep went to fetch some of the smaller clothes his guests had left behind in the past. Beorn dressed, then went to change Bilbo's clothes, knowing that the wet clothes would treat such a tiny body poorly. It was then that Beorn saw something that changed his perception of Bilbo Baggins completely.

As Beorn pulled up Bilbo's shirt, he stopped suddenly and stared, stunned by what he saw -- a terrible scar on Bilbo's stomach, Westron letters spelling out a name. The scar looked old, shiny in some places, but Beorn dared not touch it.

"Azog," he muttered, hatred crossing his features and twisting his mouth into a scowl. He pulled Bilbo's shirt down and stepped back, thinking of what Thorin had told him in the past, of the Hobbits who had been enslaved by Orcs. Just knowing that the race of Hobbits had suffered at the hands of Orcs had been enough for Beorn to agree to share the land around him.

Hobbits, who were small and quick, whom he had never known about before Thorin Oakenshield had come upon his door during his war march and ranted about the foul acts of the monsters of the mountains. Who had suffered more than Thorin had explained, though Beorn remembered some of it --

_"Clapped in irons and chains, beaten and bruised -- and all of them starving, all of them terrified and exhausted! Do you know what Hobbits are like, Beorn? They are fat and cheerful and annoying, with manners and tea parties and strange obsessions with flowers. These Hobbits were tortured. They looked like they should have died long ago, after everything that was done to them! The next Orc I see, I will rend his head from his neck and stake it for every other to see! I won't let anyone suffer like that again!"_

Words that had stuck in Beorn's head, reminding him of memories from long ago, of a time that he wished he could forget. Thorin did not know of Beorn's past, so he could not have known why Beorn reacted furiously in response to Thorin's rant that day. After that fight, they had refused to speak to each other for almost the entire week Thorin had stayed with him, those years ago.

Beorn had been more surprised than Thorin when, to break the silence, he had offered to take any Hobbits into his home and land, should they refuse to return to their Shire.

But Thorin had not told him about this, of _Azog_ taking slaves for himself, of what this Bilbo Baggins had truly suffered.

Beorn realized that he was rubbing the scars on his wrists, and he scowled and turned away, storming from the room. Bilbo Baggins did not deserve to be stripped of his clothes by a stranger. The dogs would wake the Hobbit and see to his needs, and the sheep would be only too happy for someone to dote upon.

Beorn would not disgrace Bilbo Baggins' privacy and body as Azog had in the past -- as Orcs had done to his own people, long ago. He had forgotten that pain, it had been so long; but seeing this Hobbit with familiar scars and the name of his hated old master was enough to make Beorn seethe with memory, and _understanding_.

It was just as Thorin had said that day many years ago. The next Orc Beorn saw would suffer greatly. He did not want his anger to overshadow his first meeting with Bilbo Baggins, though, so he left the house then, muttering, _"I'll be back at dawn,"_ to the ponies, who nickered softly to his back.

~

_When Bilbo opened his eyes, he stood in a field of tall, golden grass, white flowers waving gently in the breeze. Across the field stood a tall figure in green with long, dark curls, and when the person turned around, Bilbo saw her pointed ears and bronzed, earthen skin, and he knew her._

_Bilbo went to her side, reaching up to clasp her hand with his, and they entwined fingers, looking out across the golden field together._

_"Sending storms across Rhovanion is not an easy task," she said into the peaceful quiet, and Bilbo nodded, imagining that such an endeavor would be difficult indeed._

_"It was a grand storm, though," he replied, and he heard tinkling laughter. He looked up into the lady's face, and she smiled down at him, dark eyes twinkling. She reached down with her other hand to cup his face, and he leaned into her warmth, breathing in the scents of tomatoes and honeysuckle and apples._

_The dark lady in green leaned over him, pressing warm lips to his forehead, and Bilbo felt her smile against his skin. "You have come far, my child, and soon you will know peace. Trust he who changes skin, and know that I will always look after you. Welcome home," she murmured, and Bilbo felt himself smile._

_"I'm glad to be home," he whispered to her, nudging her nose with his, and felt happier for it. Beyond them, the golden fields beckoned with the warm breeze, and Bilbo walked into the new world with the lady who watched over him._

~

When Bilbo opened his eyes, he breathed in the scents of honey and beeswax, and the scents were so strange to him that at first he did not realize he was lying in a soft bed. His body was sore and stiff, but he felt rested for the first time in days. Slowly, he stretched, turning his head toward the light; a window that streamed sunlight into the room.

There was a soft whine beside him, and Bilbo looked down to see a dog with long grey fur standing on its hind legs beside the bed, watching him with ears perked in question.

It took Bilbo an embarrassingly long moment, but his mind caught up to the sight, his sleepy contentment fading away abruptly as he shrieked and scrambled back. He was in a large room, on a large bed with soft blankets and a window that showed it was morning.

The dog only stared at him, then nudged its paw at a pile of brown and white on the bed. Then it gestured to the side, and Bilbo followed the motion in complete bewilderment, to a table beside the bed with a tray that held a bottle and a bowl with a thick, steaming porridge. Bilbo blinked in shock and looked back at the dog, but it was already walking from the room, leaving him alone. Bilbo thought he saw two other dogs peering in at him, along with what looked like a large sheep, but the animals quickly disappeared before the door shut.

It took a few moments for his heart to calm after that scare, enough that Bilbo could look around the room with more attention. Everything was carved from wood, and there were thick rugs made from wool. Many of the fixtures and decorations had bears and other animal motifs, and the room looked very homey. The bed smelled of sweet grasses and wool, and Bilbo found that he was quite comfortable in it, though his clothes had dried in odd ways and felt gritty to the touch.

What was this place, and how had he come here? This was not a dream; Bilbo had definitely fallen asleep in a rotting log in the middle of a horrible forest. Had someone found him? But this place looked to be far too large for Dwarves. Bilbo shifted nervously in the bed, but something told him that he was not in danger.

And the dog! The dog who gestured to him like a person speaking with their hands; how very strange.

Investigating the pile of cloth revealed a set of brown pants and a white shirt that looked to be far too big for him, but then, compared to the furniture and doorway, this was a very large house indeed, and there might be nothing in here that fit him at all.

Still, Bilbo appreciated the hospitality, or so he hoped the gift was such; so he peeled off his dirty clothes and pulled on the trousers and shirt. They were, in fact, large on him, but perhaps they had once belonged to a Dwarf, for they hung on his frame quite like the sweater he had received in Thorin's camp. Still, they stayed up with the application of his belt and suspenders, and Bilbo felt better for it.

The bottle on the table held thick milk, and the porridge was sweetened with honey and creamy butter. Bilbo was so hungry that he hardly thought to worry about the meal, already gulping half of the bottle before he remembered his manners and slowed himself. He took the bowl and bottle and went to sit on a chair in the corner, not really wanting to stay on the bed when he did not know who had brought him here.

Bilbo had just finished the last spoonful of porridge when he heard a soft knock, and he looked up to see the door open to a white sheep, who looked at him with interest before approaching to take the tray and empty dishes. Two more dogs walked in, carrying a basket filled with bandages and herbs, and Bilbo realized they wanted to check his wounds.

Well, good on them to care, but Bilbo refused to cooperate. What followed was a brief but determined battle of glares, where the healers -- for while they were dogs, they were also most assuredly healers, and Bilbo had long held distrust toward that particular vocation -- huffed and frowned at him.

"I'm fine," Bilbo told them with a scowl, and one of the dogs seemed to mutter to the other. The taller one reached out to touch his wrists with a paw, and Bilbo started, looking down to see rope burns. He balked when the other dog stepped closer, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders as he frowned at them.

"Really, there's no need for that. I'm perfectly fine, it's just a scratch. Thank you, though," Bilbo said, not wanting to offend them with poor manners.

"You should let them treat you," said a deep voice from the doorway, and Bilbo jumped up in shock, backing away when he sighted the large Man standing there -- for he was very large, much taller than any Man Bilbo had ever seen, even taller than Gandalf. Bilbo's gaze darted past the Man to the hallway, but he could see no feasible way to escape.

The Man was wearing a sleeveless wool tunic and long pants tucked into boots, and he had thick, wiry hair that stuck up wildly around his face, keen hazel eyes fixed on Bilbo. They stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, and Bilbo could not help but wonder at his strange attire and lanky figure.

Finally the Man held up his hands in supplement, and the gesture eased Bilbo's nerves somewhat. "Peace, Bilbo Baggins. I have only hospitality and welcome for you, for I have waited for you a long time! I am Beorn of the North, and this is my house where you are staying."

Bilbo startled even more when the Man named him truly, and he sucked in a breath of shock when he heard 'Beorn,' forgetting his fear for a moment to stare up at the stranger. He had known of Beorn for some time now, to be sure, but not once had anyone described him! His host was massive in height, though he was not very wide in contrast, and his voice was loud and his accent thick. Bilbo thought of this large person meeting his tiny Hobbit kin, especially the children, and he despaired for a moment, not knowing how to react.

"Beorn? You are truly him?" Bilbo finally asked, and if his voice trembled briefly, neither he nor Beorn mentioned it.

"I am Beorn, yes, and I have come to know of you through Thorin Oakenshield, who is my ally and friend. You are Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, who has come to my home by strange means indeed. Did you know I found you sleeping in a log in Mirkwood? Gandalf, whom I had met on the way, had told me that you were lost, but I did not realize you were that lost! Did you sleep well in my home?" Beorn asked, leaning against the doorway, and Bilbo stared for a moment, forgetting his shock.

Then Bilbo felt heat sting in his throat, and he bowed his head, closing his eyes briefly as he breathed in deeply with the knowledge that he was _safe_. His heart leapt, to know that Gandalf was searching for him, and that meant Bilbo was well and truly safe. 

He had, in a strange manner, found his way to the destination he had feared he would never reach; he had come to the place where his people would soon live. His journey was over! For no one else could know of such details, and Bilbo believed at last that this Man would not hurt him. Here was the man who had promised to share his land, to give him and his people a new home. 

Bilbo felt himself relaxing, and he managed a small bow, looking up at Beorn again. "I slept very well, thank you. As you heard from Gandalf, I am Bilbo Baggins, at your service. Thank you... for taking me in and for bringing me here. I am glad to meet you, Mister Beorn," Bilbo said, but Beorn shook his head and waved a hand.

"I am just Beorn. You are welcome to anything in my home, little bunny, and the Wizard is likely on his way here already. Rest and be at ease. My friends here will take care of you if you let them." Beorn nodded to him and turned to leave, and he was already gone by the time Bilbo had worked through _little bunny_ and was sputtering in indignation.

The dogs nudged him again, and Bilbo participated in another exchange of determined looks before he gave in with a sigh and sat down, holding out his hands. The dogs were gentle about it; they made a small poultice of comfrey and water that they pressed to Bilbo's wrists and wrapped with thick bandages. Then they rubbed arnica on his neck, and they would have worried over the scratches on Bilbo's feet too, had they not already scabbed over in the night. They did bandage his shins, while Bilbo scowled down at them. Though Bilbo sulked, he could already feel the herbs soothing his pain, and he was glad for it. He was only slightly sullen when he thanked them.

After the dogs had left the room, looking rather smug for dogs, Bilbo gave in to his curiosity and followed. Outside was a long hallway that curved, and while one direction seemed to have more bedrooms, the other way opened into a wide space, and Bilbo followed that route, hearing more noises that sounded like the clattering of a kitchen and a fire's crackling.

He smelled fresh bread next, and when he entered the open living space, he found a grand room filled with carved decorations of bears, dogs, foxes, and other animals. There was a great stone fireplace at one end of the great room, as well as straw on the floor to the side. There was a large table, almost taller than Bilbo's head, with wooden plates and bowls, and long benches on either side. There were thick woolen rugs on the floor, as well as the sheep that had supplied the wool themselves.

In an area with a large stove and fire pit, a black sheep and the white sheep from before stood, their thick wool recently shorn. The two sheep looked to be arguing with Beorn, who was standing by the fire and had his hand on a large loaf of bread, but as Bilbo watched, the black sheep clucked its tongue and smacked a spoon on the great Man's hand.

Beorn exclaimed something in a strange language, looking wounded, and the two sheep ignored him after that. Beorn looked up then to see Bilbo watching with wide eyes. How wonderful and intriguing, for dogs to heal and sheep to cook! Then Bilbo heard a whinny and looked over, and he saw two ponies rolling in large logs, which Beorn lifted and set beside the massive fireplace. Ponies, to tend fires! What a strange household Beorn had, but Bilbo liked it all the same.

"So my two overbearing healers have tricked you into sitting still for them," Beorn said, dusting his hands and walking over to Bilbo, who craned his neck to look up at him. This Man was even taller than Azog!

Bilbo felt a scowl itching to take over his mouth, but he nodded instead, rubbing at his wrists. "The worst thing about healers is that you have to give in to them eventually," he said, and Beorn laughed, a great booming noise that made some of the nearby figures rattle on their shelves.

"Too true! Come then, little bunny, and have some breakfast," Beorn said, gesturing to a low table in another part of the large room.

Bilbo hesitated, unsure whether to object to _little bunny_ or remind Beorn of the meal he had been given earlier. He decided on the issue of food, first. "Oh no, I couldn't, they already left me some porridge --"

"But you are thin and small, little bunny, and I shall fatten you up with honey and cheese. You look like you have gone through dire straits indeed, and porridge is only the start to a good breakfast! Come, keep me company and be welcome at my table. You must tell me how you came to be lost in those woods," Beorn said, and finally Bilbo gave in and sat at the table, on a cushion that a dog laid out just for him and wincing as he arranged himself. 

Beorn sat across from him, and the sheep came over with wooden bowls and cups, then followed with plates of thick, soft breads, cheeses and jellies, honey and cream. There were bowls of spring onions and cucumbers, and a long plate of large strawberries. The sheep poured thick milk into the cups for them both.

"This is an amazing breakfast," Bilbo exclaimed, and Beorn grinned over his milk.

"Grown in my gardens and gifted from my cows and goats. Eat up, my guest! And tell me of your story -- I thought you were coming later, with more Hobbits?"

Bilbo did, relishing the food for a few moments while he thought of how to explain everything. He watched Beorn, meeting those keen eyes briefly before dropping his gaze. For all that Beorn daunted him with his large appearance, Bilbo felt no ill will from him, only curiosity and respect. Finally he finished his bite and sat back, taking a deep breath.

"As Thorin told you, my people and I were traveling to your house, and with me there were my three cousins, a Dwarf named Bofur, and Gandalf the Grey. The rest of my kin will follow in the next few months, and perhaps some of them are already near the Misty Mountains," he said, and Beorn hummed over his plate of cheese and bread.

"Good, good! I look forward to meeting them. But where are your cousins?" Beorn asked.

Bilbo glanced at the window worriedly. "I imagine they are still in the Misty Mountains, with Bofur and Balin in the dwarf-halls. You see, there was an Orc who found me while I was walking alone in those halls, and he caught me and stole me away. I only just escaped him last night," Bilbo explained, glancing up nervously at Beorn, who looked troubled at the mention of Orcs. 

"Then you are lucky indeed, for you must have run from that Orc and its companions before I killed them yesterday. I found an Orc pack wandering with their Wargs, but I did not see any Hobbit with them. Gandalf and his Dwarf friends found me after I had killed them, and he mentioned you, that you were lost in the woods. I followed you to that log where you slept, and here I brought you. It is fortunate you were so clever to escape them!" Beorn said, looking pleased, and Bilbo stared at him in shock.

"Then -- you killed them? All of them?" he asked, voice trembling. If Bolg was defeated and dead, then...

Beorn's expression shifted, though, and Bilbo's hopes were dashed. "All but one. It abandoned the others and fled," Beorn muttered, scowling into his milk. Bilbo's shoulders dropped in disappointment. Perhaps it was not Bolg who had fled -- but somehow he doubted it. Azog's son was intelligent and cunning, and if anyone could escape death with nary a scratch, it was him.

Bilbo wavered, blinking in amazement, and he watched Beorn closely, remembering only that an animal had attacked the group, not a Man. "So Gandalf is out there looking for me?" he asked instead, and Beorn nodded.

"If he knows how to track, he should be here later today. If he is that clever," Beorn agreed, and Bilbo felt amused at Beorn's dismissal of the Wizard.

"Gandalf is too clever by half," Bilbo offered.

Beorn snorted into his milk. "For a Wizard," he said grudgingly, and Bilbo felt himself smile, thinking that he would get along with Beorn very well indeed.

"Thank you for taking me into your hospitality, and for offering my people a new home. We will never forget your kindness, Beorn," Bilbo said after a few moments, and Beorn looked up at him, his mien serious.

"It is my privilege, Bilbo Baggins. When Thorin Oakenshield described to me what your people had suffered, I had to help. It is only right, after what happened to my people long ago," Beorn said, and Bilbo noticed how he rubbed his wrists -- and then he noticed the scars on the large man's wrists. From shackles -- the same scars on his own arms.

Bilbo looked up at Beorn with wide eyes, breathing in deeply in shock, as Beorn met his gaze evenly. "Your people?" he whispered, and Beorn nodded solemnly.

"Long ago, my people lived in these lands in peace. We were one with the animals and earth, and we were happy. But then the Orcs came down from the mountains, and they saw my people as useful. Our towns were ravaged and we were taken into those mountains. The Hobbits were not the first race that Orc defiled," Beorn growled, and Bilbo sucked in a breath in realization.

So this was why Beorn had agreed to take the Hobbits in. He _understood_ \-- and Bilbo felt grief for his people, and for Beorn's people as well, for what Azog had done to them. After several moments of silence, he dared to ask quietly, "What became of your people?"

In answer, Beorn turned his head to watch the sheep that cooked in the kitchen and the dogs that were moving around in the hall beyond them, folding sheets and clothes. Outside, ponies and goats worked together on a pile of wood, and Bilbo tried to understand what Beorn meant.

"We were changelings, Bilbo Baggins," Beorn explained after a moment, and briefly, his face was hairier, his nose lengthening and darkening, and Bilbo thought he saw a bear for a moment. But then Beorn was a Man again, and his gaze was dark with old grief.

"Long ago, my people could change into many animals. When we were taken into the mountains, many of my people changed into their animal selves and fled. Even in the caves, we were able to change to escape torture, but many -- their minds were broken. They stayed as animals in these woods. When I escaped, I found them hiding in the woods, but none wished to be Men again. For a time, I did not either, but eventually I became a Man again, and I built my house here. None of the others ever changed back, but they stayed with me as the years passed.

"These animals here -- they are descendants of my people, of the animals they became. They have forgotten that they were once Men, too. I teach them words, I teach them how to walk on their legs like Men, but they cannot remember that they are the same as me. They are members of my house and they give me what they can, but they are not my people anymore, not as they were."

Then Beorn fell silent, and Bilbo felt a great sadness welling up in his throat. He could not speak, and Beorn did not either, not for some time. The animals moved around them, cheerful in their work but quiet, and Bilbo thought that Beorn must be very lonely in this house of kin who were no longer family.

"No one else knows this tale," Beorn said at last, and Bilbo nodded, rubbing at his eyes with a napkin.

"I'll not speak of it to anyone," Bilbo said quietly, and Beorn watched him with a keen gaze, that eventually softened.

"Eat up, little bunny," the Man said gruffly, and Bilbo huffed a small breath. 

"I'm not a bunny," he protested, but Beorn began to laugh.

"Ho! A bunny indeed! Small and quick in the woods, and nervous and gentle in my house! Go on, eat up and be at ease, Bilbo Baggins. When your Wizard friend arrives, there will be more tales to tell, and when your cousins come here as well, we will work on building you a house. For now, stay in my home and be content. I will look after you," Beorn said, and Bilbo watched him curiously, the phrase familiar but he did not know where he had heard it recently.

No matter. Bilbo gave Beorn a smile, a bit exasperated, but he did not have the heart to take offense any longer.

"Thank you, Beorn. I hope we can become great friends," Bilbo said, and Beorn grinned in agreement.

~

Gandalf did not arrive that morning, and Beorn said later he had chores to see to, so he left Bilbo alone after breakfast and disappeared into the woods. He did give Bilbo some paper when he asked and offered the use of one of the ravens that stayed up in the tree outside, so Bilbo sat down to write some letters to his cousins, and to Thorin to warn him of what had happened.

He assured Rory, Otho, and Drogo that he was safe and hale, and he advised him to mind their behavior and stay close to Bofur. He also wrote to Bofur, and in both letters he explained what had happened to him and how he had come to Beorn's home. He was sure to apologize, knowing how his cousins must have taken his disappearance, and he told them to hurry to Beorn's, to join him and Gandalf.

Then Bilbo wrote to Thorin, and though the letter was succinct compared to the last he had sent -- was it truly only a few days ago? A week? He did not know how long Bolg had kept him -- he did not waste words. He did not mention anything from their other letters, hoping that Thorin had already responded to that letter separately. Instead he told Thorin of Bolg's plots and the dark intent the Orc carried toward the Dwarf King.

When his letters were written, Bilbo went outside to find the ravens, and he was momentarily captivated with the wide, open yard of Beorn's home. The entire area was enclosed by a high wooden wall, and two ponies were working on cutting firewood. Three foxes stood out further in the yard, where Bilbo recognized the lines of a vegetable garden. As Bilbo looked around, he noticed great, fat bees buzzing about lazily. There were bee boxes and tools of all sorts, and Bilbo was sorely tempted to explore the beautiful, quaint home. 

Beorn seemed very much the type of person of which Hobbits would approve. Hard-working and respectful toward the earth -- and with such fantastic skill beside! Not to mention his kindness. Bilbo would not betray Beorn's confidence, but he knew that if the other Hobbits knew why Beorn had agreed to take them in, they would appreciate Beorn all the more for it.

Perhaps someday, Bilbo and his people could repay Beorn as well. He seemed to be a lonely man, for all that he had a household full of animals that cared for him. A little companionship would not hurt; and Bilbo was sure that, after they grew accustomed to his appearance and manner, his fellow Hobbits would adore Beorn.

First, he wanted to send his letters. After a moment of uncertainty, Bilbo held up his arm with his elbow crooked, two fingers pointing outward, as Beorn had described to him that morning. A moment later, two ravens with sleek black feathers fluttered down from the great tree beside Beorn's house, landing in front of him.

"Oh! How charming -- you are very clever, aren't you?" Bilbo said in delight, and the birds seemed to preen with the praise. Then one held out its leg, and Bilbo tied the letters to Bofur and his cousins to it. "This letter is to go to the Dwarves at the East-gate," he said, feeling foolish for the instruction, but the raven nodded once and flew up into the sky, curling its talons around the paper.

"Dear me," Bilbo said, watching the raven fly westward in awe. The other raven gave a sharp cry at being ignored, and Bilbo hastened to give his other letter over, tying it in the same manner. "This letter is for Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor. Perhaps you know him already?" The raven clucked its beak and took hold of the letter, flying up as the other had, but to the north.

How perfectly useful! He had doubted Balin before, when the Dwarf had described the ravens, but now he was rather impressed with the idea.

Now that he had sent his letters, Bilbo took time to explore the great yard. He watched the ponies work efficiently with the wood, cutting out thick, round logs and rolling one or two inside, and then turning the rest into stacks of firewood. Bilbo did offer to help them, but the ponies snorted at him and worked a little faster, leaving him with nothing to do but watch. 

A little while later, two dogs wandered outside with a basket of linens, and Bilbo flushed to realize that his clothes were included. When the dogs began to fill a wooden basin with water, Bilbo hurried over.

"Oh, you don't have to do that! I can take care of it," he exclaimed, flustered, but the dogs sniffed at him, then ignored him entirely, beginning to wash the clothing with a thick bar of soap. Bilbo stood there helplessly for a moment, embarrassed, but a stern look from one of the dogs -- and how was Bilbo being _scolded_ now? -- sent him sulking away.

A large bee buzzed by his ear, and Bilbo squirmed at the odd noise, rubbing his ear against his shoulder. He followed the bee's path to the garden, and a happy nostalgia overtook him for a moment to see the rows of neat green sprouts and wooden stakes. He approached the garden, admiring the tidy work, and he was reminded of long afternoons with Holman Greenhand.

The foxes were planting onion bulbs, and Bilbo politely offered to help. But they, like the other animals, did not need his help, so Bilbo sat for a while and enjoyed the breeze, breathing in the scents of fresh greenery.

This place was heavenly to his spirit, which sorely missed the Shire of old.

Perhaps he should explore a bit. He would not go far, and Beorn had not told him he could not leave; so Bilbo stood and left the yard. Outside the wooden wall, which was fortified with thick vines, there was a great field where more ponies grazed, along with fat cows and goats, and smaller animals ran playfully through the grasses, much like fauntlings in the spring. Bilbo did not approach any of the animals, though, instead heading for the woods, which were spacious and had a clear view of the sky, so that he could tell the direction he was walking.

The forest was lovely. There was a worn path that wove through the trees, and this Bilbo followed with leisure, stretching his aching legs and enjoying the warm spring air. The trees here were different than the ones on the other side of the Misty Mountains, and much livelier than the trees of Mirkwood to the south where Bolg had carried him. There were trees and plants he had never seen before, and flowers he had never smelled, and the heady scents of herbs he recognized, and many more he did not know.

As he walked the path, Bilbo occasionally reached out to touch the different barks of the trees, leaned down to smell the flowers reaching up cheerfully from the ground to meet him, and picked little berries that burst sweet and tart on his tongue. The sun shone through the trees, casting warmth on his face, and he relished the soft dirt beneath his toes. Birds twittered high in the branches above him, and he spotted rabbits and squirrels watching him curiously from beneath the bushes. Likely they had never seen someone traipsing through their woods like this, other than Beorn. Bilbo almost felt like waving, but he chose not to, grinning as he popped another berry in his mouth.

Fertile and green all around, the land took his breath away. Bilbo wished his cousins were here to share it. They would love it here -- and so would the children, who had begged him for this exact place. Hidden in the grasses, beneath the shadows of trees reaching high above, he saw mushrooms and the long, thin greens of onions. He heard running water at one point, and after following the sound, he stumbled upon a babbling brook and a great pooling pond, shallow and clear. He took a moment to sip some of the cool water, sighing at the clean taste, before continuing his walk. As he left the pond behind, he heard a small croak, and he looked back in delight.

This place was _perfect_. He could hardly wait for his kin to come and make a home here.

As Bilbo neared a parting in the trees, he caught a familiar scent that made him ache. It smelled of tomato vines. He walked a bit faster -- and now he smelled clover, thick among the heavy scents of earth and grass. He could smell flowers now, heavy with honeysuckle and myrtle, eglantine and daisies. Warmth touched his face as the sun peeked through the leaves ahead, and Bilbo quickened his pace more, until he broke the tree line.

Green and yellow, as far as he could see -- a vale of long golden grasses and the new green growth of spring, curving around a river that sparkled in the sunlight. The forest curled around the vale, with thick trees covering the river further north. The land here was rich with life, and Bilbo inhaled and stared, struck by the sight and knowing now what the scents meant to him.

_Home._

This was the place. This was the Vale, the place he had sought for months now, that he had yearned for since losing his childhood home to Shirefall. This was the place of his ancestors, of his kin who would soon arrive. He could see this place as it would become; hills dotted with round doors and smoking chimneys, with gentle paths that would meander about the river and creeks. Toward the center of the vale, there was a large tree that reached above the rest of the land, with budding green leaves that glistened in the wind, as if to welcome him.

This was his home, as it was meant to be.

The warm breeze brushed against him in an embrace, and Bilbo smiled, wide and happy. For a moment he thought he heard tinkling laughter, and perhaps he had -- the joyful laugh of his mother who welcomed him.

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling, perfect, amazing readers, I am happy to announce that this story has reached over 200K words in length. Sixteen months of writing, and we've come this far. I am so, so happy to have written this story, and I can't wait to write the rest of it, for you to read and enjoy. This story would be nothing without your readership and support, and I am so thankful for every one of you who reads my words. Thank you.
> 
> In commemoration, I have written a short story in the _Pain-Bearer_ universe, taking place approximately a year from the events of this chapter, featuring our two bean-headed heroes and some lovely shenanigans with Hobbit fauntlings -- [Tied with a Ribbon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1425802)! Please read and enjoy it!
> 
> I am also very pleased to announce that one of my darling beta readers, **KaavyaWriting** , has written a fanfiction of _Pain-Bearer_ , called [Beloved. Âzyungel.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1384510) Please go read it! Please give KaavyaWriting all the kudos and comments and love! Because the story is amazing and I am SO VERY THANKFUL for her and **tribumvirate** , who continue to read through my ridiculous chapters and fix the plethora of mistakes that you, my darling readers, hopefully will never see. The two of them are absolutely the best ever.
> 
> Also, PassiveResistance has drawn an absolutely stunning rendition of the scene from Chapter 26 where Bilbo dreams of Yavanna and Nienna, called [We Will Be Happy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/787761/chapters/2136636). Go forth and admire!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you look forward to the next chapter!


	34. Too soon to hold dear, but still

The Master wore shadow as his cloak and fire as his helm; magic sizzled at his fingertips, ready and willing to flow across the lands and give him the world. His master and lord was gone, but he would carry those desires in his place; to rule everything. All he needed was his One -- yet it was lost.

 _"So my One is not in the mountains,"_ he murmured. He did not look at his servant who stared at the floor in shame, ignoring the black blood seeping lethargically onto the stone. Old rage simmered beneath the faint smile on his mouth. He could feel the power at the edge of his fingertips, yet he did not reach for it, did not fall into that familiar anger which churned desperately under his skin.

 _"Go again. Search the halls of dwarves and men, of any who have traded with Thorin Oakenshield. Do not return until you find it, Bolg son of Azog. Were your father here, he would have it in my grasp already. Do not fail me again,"_ Sauron warned, and he heard the lowest of growls before his servant left.

Before Bolg was just out of hearing, Sauron spoke again. _"Your slave has shown affinity for my One. Let it join the hunt, and see if it cannot find my One before you can."_ He smiled to himself as Bolg struggled to hold his fury in check. The Orc left quickly, and Sauron turned his gaze deep into the distance, always watching, always waiting for his One to return to his hand.

_My one, my only, my..._

~

_"Preciousssssss..."_ rattled the pitiful creature, phlegm catching in its throat. "Released we are, free to find the precious, the precious that was stolen! Gollum, gollum," it coughed, climbing up a tree and staring out across the murky woods.

"Master will be angry," it whispered with a savage grin. Free to hunt, free to find the one that had stayed at its side through everything. Time was endless when it had its birthday present; there was no day, no night, only the precious gift that kept it warm and happy. It missed the whispers and the dark embraces, the visions in the night. That glimmer, like fire in its hands --

"Nasty orcses and dwarves, nasty beasties that stole it from us. We will find it, precious, _yes_ ," it hissed, curling long, gnarly hands over the tree branch. "They know it not as we do."

Then it vanished into the forest. A shadow of a shadow followed it, ready to turn back the instant the creature found what it hunted.

~

The first night in Beorn's house, Bilbo did not sleep very much at all. He kept reaching to his neck for a necklace that had fallen in Moria's halls, and he turned over in his large bed, beneath the quilts and woolen blankets, thoughts spinning through his mind. Was his family safe? Was his ring found? And Thorin's key -- had someone picked it up? How could he lose his necklace? And Bolg --

_\-- clawed hands in his hair, a heated voice in his ear --_

One step forward, two steps back. Yet Bilbo knew in his heart that Azog was only a memory, no matter how Bolg had reminded him of those dark times. Azog's room had moved on, after all. Time had passed; Bilbo was healing. He was not going to let Azog's rotten son ruin everything he had worked for since gaining freedom. He refused to bow to the control of any creature but his old master; and Azog was dead. Still --

_'He will suffer for Azog's death. He will die like the cursed dwarf-scum he is.'_

_Thorin,_ Bilbo thought in the darkest hour of night, hiding his face in the pillow. It took a very long time to fall asleep. Even in slumber his mind was not quiet; he did not quite dream, but he thought of the past anyway, tossing and turning until he was so exhausted that he slept past second breakfast.

~

Thorin was proud to say that he lasted three days before attempting to leave the kingdom. He had it planned perfectly: two hours after his personal guard had changed sentries, when they were settling into their usual midnight card game, Thorin snuck out to his pony, already saddled and supplied, with his weapons and armor.

Dís had spies everywhere, though, and not an hour after he left, Thorin looked back to see Dwalin chasing him down. Thorin's gut reaction was to flee; so he did, flying across the plains to Ravenhill, and he would have galloped right past had one of the couriers not waved a letter at him with Beorn's signature woolen tie. The sight of that letter stabbed right through his willpower, and Thorin hurriedly stopped and sought refuge in the tower, snatching the letter from the perplexed courier and vanishing into a nearby cupboard to hide.

Never had he torn open a letter so quickly, and never had he felt so faint upon seeing the handwriting within, instead of Beorn's larger, stiffer script.

> _Dear Thorin,_
> 
> _As I write this to you, I sit safely in Beorn's house near the Vale, while his animal servants gather the laundry and cut firewood for dinner. I'm not sure if Bofur told you anything, but something happened the night before we were meant to leave Khazad-dûm. Please know that I am safe now._
> 
> _Bolg somehow infiltrated Khazad-dûm. I know not how. Foolishly, I was walking alone while everyone was eating dinner, and suddenly he was there. Thorin, I am sorry, but he killed one of your guards, a soldier from the battle. I did not know his name._
> 
> _Bolg was looking for something, and he caught me and took me along to the treasure room. He was muttering to himself about it, though at that time he did not realize I understood him. He was looking for a ring, and he made me look for it as well. It was supposed to be gold, but nothing I found matched what he wanted. He thought you had taken it. He spoke of a dark master in the south, which concerns me -- Bolg was never one to obey anyone. He hated Azog and thwarted him whenever they met._
> 
> _When the guards came, Bolg escaped and took me with him. The less said of that time, the better, but he did not hurt me and he did not let his followers do anything either. I'm not sure how many days I was with them, but the end of it was rather anticlimactic. A great bear, which I later learned was Beorn, came upon the company and killed all of them save Bolg. I ran the moment they were attacked, and later Beorn found me and took me to his home. He recognized me, as Gandalf had been looking for me as well, and you yourself had told him of me._
> 
> _Thank you, Thorin. I might not have made it here alive had Beorn not expected me. You have my deepest gratitude. Beorn is giving me shelter until my family arrives, and surely Gandalf will not be far behind. I hope that if you did know of my abduction, that you did not blame yourself. I know what you promised, and had you been there -- I think, surely, that Bolg would be dead now, and nothing terrible would have occurred._
> 
> _Beorn has left for unknown reasons, but he has told me to enjoy his hospitality. His home is marvelous! His servants are quite interesting, and everything they have made for me to eat has been delicious. He is a very kind man, and I look forward to working beside him. Thank you again, for bringing us together. I can't believe I'm finally here, though I hardly expected the manner in which I came to the Vale!_
> 
> _In some way I am thankful that I met Bolg, because of the clues he let slip before he realized I could understand his language. His master and the ring -- I haven't a clue what they mean, but I'll inform Gandalf the moment I see him. Nasty business, certainly, but most importantly -- I can warn you. He said he was coming after you. Whether for revenge or to retrieve his master's item, or both, I cannot know for sure -- but please be careful, Thorin. I don't think I could live with myself if you were harmed by him, and I did nothing to stop it._
> 
> _I hope you are okay. I should like to see you soon._
> 
> _That reminds me -- I will not be speaking with you about anything that has to do with the Vale once I reach Erebor. All business shall be done through Princess Dís, and you can't do a thing to stop it. The nerve of you! Giving my people a portion of Azog's gold and not telling me about it! Then insisting, with the bull-headed determination I should expect of a Dwarf, that I shall 'not so easily escape your aid' -- well, Thorin Oakenshield, I have a thing or two to say about that! I would be happy to tell you all about it in our next letter, after you have apologized profusely for misleading me. If you wrote anything to me in response to my letter from Khazad-dûm, I have not received it. I was a bit busy after all!_
> 
> _Teasing aside, I have to make a confession to you, and please, understand that I cannot bear going forward without telling you. I have lost your key. In the scuffle when Bolg grabbed me, the chain tore and fell. I am so sorry, Thorin. Your key is very precious to me, and I have lost it, because of my foolish choice to go alone to a place that should be empty to me, and is, yet it is not. I went to his room. The one where you first met me. It was Azog's chamber, and my feet took me there without my choosing... and it was my downfall. I am sorry._
> 
> _I hope that you are safe and well when you receive this. Again, know that I am safe and unharmed, but I have lost much because of my actions. Still, I have gained other things, and now I am where I am supposed to be. I'm going for a walk now to explore this wondrous place._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  Bilbo_

The relief was still powerful, even two days later when Thorin was edging around the breakfast table, where Dís was ignoring him with the anger of what could become a five-year-grudge. There had been many predecessors; Thorin had his own share of stubborn grievances with his siblings as well. She was furious with him for trying to leave; she did not understand it, not his obsession with Bilbo nor his need to see to his safety. Thorin had yet to explain it to her. (He still could not explain it to himself.)

Dwalin had doubled his guard. Thorin had just barely avoided getting clubbed with _Ukhlat_ , and Dwalin would have used _Umraz_ , too, had Thorin not escaped to his pony. Dwalin was not pleased with him, either.

Already Bilbo's letter was worn, from Thorin tucking it into his vest and pulling it out between meetings, to read the words _I am safe now_ again, as if the renewed knowledge would bring peace to his frenzied nerves. Less than a week of not knowing whether Bilbo was alive or dead -- and Thorin was still dreaming at night of a tiny, broken body with pointed ears and curly hair, even though he had the proof in Bilbo's own handwriting.

Bilbo was safe. Thorin had to tell himself that every day. He still waited for Bofur's report, and for word from his brother. Just to convince himself that he was not dreaming.

~

Bilbo spent much of his wait for his family and friends walking about the Vale. He followed the hills down into the valley, walking along the riverside and tracing a tributary up into the mountains with his eyes. There was a small waterfall as the tributary left the more jagged hills and became the river proper, and Bilbo could see a deep, clear pool at the bottom of the falls, perfect for swimming.

There were many creeks in the woods, and the land was lush with their effects. The sheer number of flowers alone brought joy to Bilbo, and he wished his mother could have seen this. His parents would have loved the Vale, with its golden hills and white flowers. Bilbo recognized dozens of them, and yet there were even flowers he could not name. Flowers that a Hobbit did not know! He looked forward to his kin discovering them.

There was a hill not far from the little path that had led Bilbo to the Vale. It had a grand view of the Vale, and Bilbo had lunch there each day that he stayed with Beorn. He began to imagine fences winding around the front of it; the flat spot on the side could be a garden of herbs and tomatoes. There might be a little chimney near the back, puffing white smoke up from a stone oven inside. He pictured a large, round green door with a brass handle, and a stone path going up into the woods.

"Wouldn't it be nice," he murmured, closing his eyes against the sun with a smile.

His company did eventually arrive. Gandalf was the first, on the third day, followed by a troop of Dwarves that looked bedraggled and muddy. Bilbo watched them in bemusement from his self-appointed place on a barrel in the yard; he had been banished from gardening yet again, and there was no possibility of the animals letting him do any of the other chores.

"Beorn!" cried Gandalf when he emerged from the trees, walking through the gate with a brisk walk that no man with such white hair should be comfortable using. "Beorn, we know you were in the woods! Have you returned? Did you find him? Beorn!"

"What is this noise?" Beorn grumbled from inside the house, coming out while dusting off his hands. He had been carving again; it was a delight to watch. "Ah! Wizard, I should have known, and Dwarves besides. Didn't we settle our business three days ago?"

Gandalf did not yet notice Bilbo, which was rather amusing to the Hobbit. The Wizard puffed up at Beorn's mild tone. "Of course not! I am short one Hobbit, and Captain Bren here tracked Bilbo Baggins through the Greenwood -- until your steps took the place of his! Have you seen him? Curly hair, large feet --"

"It's like you can't see past your own nose," Bilbo said in wonder, and he started laughing when Gandalf stopped short and turned so fast that they all heard the small crick in his neck.

"Bilbo," Gandalf breathed. Bilbo grinned at him, and in two strides Gandalf was in front of him, reaching up with long arms to embrace him tightly. "Oh, my dear boy, I am glad you are safe!"

Hidden by long grey robes, nobody noticed when Bilbo flinched, but he was quick to return Gandalf's hug, breathing in his familiar smell of pipe-weed. "I'm okay, Gandalf," Bilbo said quietly, and he felt Gandalf shaking with joyous laughter.

"Hobbits," Gandalf said to him, letting go and looking at him happily, leaning on his staff. "You have the rarest luck in all the land." 

Bilbo noticed soft white robes beneath the grey of his sleeves, but he was too happy to see Gandalf to point it out. At the edge of the yard, a group of Dwarves was sitting down to rest, watching them with smiles. Bilbo did not see anyone familiar, but Gandalf noticed the attention and straightened as the largest and ruddiest of the Dwarves approached.

"Bilbo, this is Captain Bren and his company. They joined me in my search for you, and it was their tracking skills which allowed us to follow you. We are all quite tired," he declared, looking over at Beorn, who gave him a scowl.

"No Dwarves," the great Man said. "Not for longer than a night."

Gandalf sputtered, but Captain Bren who was standing behind him snorted. "Aye, we know, and we thank ye, Beorn. Only King Thorin will stay inside that house for any length of time," he told Gandalf, who looked quite puzzled by the fact.

"Whatever do you have against Dwarves, Beorn? Certainly they are lively, but --"

"What stands between me and that race is none of your business, Wizard," Beorn said drily. "As it happens, I know these dwarrows, or a few of them from Thorin's business. Do any of your company need healing, Dwarf?"

Captain Bren looked unaffected by Beorn's attitude. Gandalf was still confused, and Bilbo was watching everything in great interest.

"Nah, nothing more than a few scrapes. We'll go wash up in the creek, if you don't mind. Glad to see you're alright, _khuzdibâh_ Baggins," Captain Bren said, and Bilbo managed to nod at him.

Gandalf could only watch in dismay as the Dwarves trooped out of the yard cheerfully. When he turned back to Beorn and Bilbo, there was only Bilbo, as Beorn had vanished back into his house, done with the business.

"And they call me mad," Gandalf grumbled. Bilbo gave a small laugh and hopped down from the barrel, walking out into the yard.

"I've much to tell you, Gandalf. Why don't we have a walk? There's something I wish you to see."

On the walk through the woods, Bilbo told Gandalf everything of his encounter with Bolg. As he had suspected, Gandalf understood a great deal more about the business than he did, but the Wizard was tight-lipped on the matter when Bilbo asked him what it meant.

Of the master: "He said _bûrzgoth_ specifically? Not _grat_ or _shakh_?" Gandalf asked, then stroked his chin with a frown at Bilbo's nod. He did not seem to notice how Bilbo was perturbed at Gandalf's knowledge of the Black speech; to hear those words in his great friend's voice was _wrong_.

Of the _nazgûl_ : "Bilbo, you must be very clear," Gandalf said, taking Bilbo's small shoulders in his hands. "He said _nazgûl_? You are _certain_?" and muttered even more deeply when Bilbo nodded again. Bilbo watched him in confusion and asked him what the creatures were, but Gandalf would not explain.

And of the ring: "Oh," Gandalf said with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and looking very old suddenly. He was silent for some time, without nary a mutter or grumble, leaning heavily on his staff and staring into the shadows of the woods. "You bring me terrible news indeed, Bilbo Baggins, but I am glad for it. You are very brave, my boy."

Bilbo asked him what it all meant, but Gandalf only shook his head. "Dark, terrible things, my boy," Gandalf told him, and he would say no more of it no matter how Bilbo pried at him.

Then the Wizard went back to muttering to himself, and Bilbo did not disturb him again, until they reached the end of the path. Gandalf's hat flipped up a bit with the breeze, and sunshine caught the Wizard's attention, his mutters fading away.

"You found it," Gandalf said slowly, looking across the Vale with a wide, astonished gaze. Bilbo beamed at him. Together they walked through the Vale, and Bilbo pointed out places that would make fantastic smials. Gandalf nodded along with him, seeming to forget the dark news Bilbo had shared, and for a while, they were both rather content. Gandalf shared some invaluable thoughts on the lay of the land, pointing out a natural grass road that lead up to the same road that wound through the Greenwood.

"You could have the main road there, for travel and commerce, and then the path we walked on to get here, so that the Hobbits may reach Beorn more easily. A back way," Gandalf explained, and Bilbo could picture it in his mind. He thought he should draw a map, to start the plans. His cousins would certainly like to help, he knew.

"I received a letter from Rory and the boys," Bilbo told Gandalf. "Bofur's leading them here. They left Khazad-dûm already."

"Splendid!" Gandalf exclaimed, and then they turned and walked back to Beorn's house. Gandalf mostly let Bilbo chat, and he was happy to do so, talking about the flowers and what he would like his new home to look like, but Bilbo did not miss the trouble gathering on Gandalf's brow.

Thus it was no surprise to Bilbo when Gandalf announced that evening, after a veritable feast with the Dwarves and Beorn, that he was leaving.

"But you've only just arrived," Bilbo protested, but he did not expect Gandalf to be swayed by his sad eyes.

"I know, dear Bilbo, and I am utterly grateful that you are safe. Beorn will take care of you from here, now that you have reached your destination. I must look into other matters, and I shall seek advice from old friends of mine," Gandalf said, sounding very mysterious indeed, but Bilbo huffed and gave him a frown.

"You'd better come back to visit. I'll have this Vale up and running in no time! There are lots of Hobbits due to arrive in a matter of months, and we'll have a proper settlement before too long. I wouldn't have gotten here without you, and I will be very cross indeed if you think you can hide away in your wizardry and avoid coming to see me!" exclaimed Bilbo, and he was relieved to see the brooding look in Gandalf's gaze lessen with his smile.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, my boy! Write to me if you have need. Thorin's ravens know me by now."

He was gone early the next morning. The Dwarves followed his example, heading back to Khazad-dûm after wishing Bilbo well and thanking him for his duties in the war. Suddenly Bilbo was alone again, and he would have spent the whole day in a great sulk, had Thorin's response not arrived after breakfast.

~

> _Bilbo,_
> 
> _It relieves me greatly to know that you are safe. Thank you for telling me. I was worried for you. I beg your forgiveness for being unable to go to you myself. I was unable to leave Erebor, though I wished to go to your side and find you, but my kingdom needed me. In my stead, my brother has left Erebor with my sister-son, Kíli, to search for you. I nearly left after them, but I was waylaid by your letter of safety._
> 
> _That worthless wretch better not have harmed a hair on your head, else I take his next we meet. He should not have touched you._
> 
> _Thank you for your warning. I will watch for Bolg; the scouts who patrol the borders will send word at the first hint of an attack. He will regret going near Khazad-dûm. I want to know exactly how he was able to reach you without a single person noticing his presence, save Budri, the soldier standing guard on that night, as Balin told me. Do not blame yourself for his death. Blame only Bolg._
> 
> _Do not worry. Your key is safe with your family. Bofur picked it up and gave it to your cousin Rorimac, as he told me in his letter. It is alright. Your safety is more important than a trinket, though I am glad that it will return to you. The chain broke, you said? That is unfortunate. I had commissioned the chain out of silver; I will have a new one made for you, of a stronger material._
> 
> _That master of his, though -- that worries me. I remember Bolg from battling him, and he was more horrible than his father in ways untold. Whatever else you can tell me of what he said, I would be glad for it. I will pass the information to my generals, and probably to the elves, as they control the majority of those forests._
> 
> _But he should not have been there. He should not have touched you. I am sorry, Bilbo. You absolve me of my guilt -- but I cannot let you take it from me, because I was not there to protect you, when I had promised that you would be safe from harm. For that, I will apologize now, and in every letter I send to you, and again when we meet._
> 
> _For the other apology, I am quite perplexed at your anger, but I am sorry for offending you. The gold is for your people, and I would have given you more had the deal been struck differently, but I had obligations to the clans for their part in the war march. Was Balin not clear in his explanation? It is a gift, and your kin surely deserve it._
> 
> _What does my sister have to do with this? If Balin said that she is the master of our guilds and holds control over international contracts, there is truth to that, but I am capable of dispersing aid to a friend of my kingdom and myself. I do not understand why you are upset. I mean only good will, and my words to you were honest; I will give you aid whenever I can._
> 
> _As I mentioned earlier, my brother and nephew volunteered to go search for you when I could not. They left some days ago, so I cannot send word to them that you are safe. They are traveling now through the Greenwood. Kíli is the younger of my nephews and is the same in his heart; he is carefree and innocent, though he takes to his duties well enough. My brother Frerin is of a more serious mind. I hope you meet them well._
> 
> _Bofur wrote to me to tell me that you were safe before he left Khazad-dûm with your kin, and I was pleased to inform him that you had already told me. It was his urgent letter that alerted me to your kidnapping, and I tried to leave Erebor to rush to you. I could not, though. Again, I apologize for my failure in keeping you safe. I am glad that Beorn found you and brought you to safety when I could not._
> 
> _How do you like the Vale? Whenever I visit Beorn, I always admire his lands for their beauty and diverse wildlife. With the road going from Erebor to Beorn's house, it is easy enough to reach him, which will make travel safe for you and your kin. The elves control the Greenwood, but they will not bother you if there are dwarrows with you. I hope you have found your home there. I am glad that everything has come to fruition for you. Again, if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask me._
> 
> _Always,  
>  Thorin_

~

Thorin's letter left Bilbo in such a good mood that he scarcely noticed the day go by. Bofur and his cousins arrived that evening, as the East-gate was only a day and a half away from Beorn's house.

Bilbo was sitting outside with a pipe Beorn had handed him the other night, smoking the strange pipe-weed Beorn had cultivated himself. It was earthier than Old Toby or Longbottom leaf, but Bilbo enjoyed it nonetheless, in the quiet twilight as the stars began to shine.

Then he heard a shout, and he looked up to see Rory running toward him, followed closely by Drogo and Otho. Bilbo was on his feet before he realized it and ran to meet them, seizing Rory in his arms and reaching out to grip his Baggins cousins, sinking into their embrace with relief so strong it numbed him. They were _safe_ \-- and oh, how he had worried! How he had worried them! He might not ever forgive himself for scaring the boys with his foolish behavior, but he would make it up to them. He would not leave them alone again.

"You're an idiot," Rory told him, then hid his tears in Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo smiled, resting his forehead to Drogo's and closing his eyes, mussing Otho's curls with his hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered simply -- and they forgave him just like that.

When the small family had extracted themselves from their pile on the ground, they found Beorn watching them in delight.

"Bunnies! So many of you, with your fluffy hair and bellies to be filled!" he boomed, making Bilbo's cousins jump, but Bilbo only laughed.

"Cousins, this is Beorn, our host and friend. He has many delicious things to eat! Though he doesn't seem to realize that we are not rodents," Bilbo said wryly, which Beorn ignored.

"Come in! Come in, family of Bilbo, and be welcome in my home! What is your name?" Beorn asked Otho, and Bilbo smiled as he watched Beorn herd his cousins inside, Otho's stuttering voice following the great Man.

He was about to follow, when a large, warm hand caught him by the shoulder, and he was tugged into a tight embrace. "You gave me such a scare," Bofur said into his ear, and Bilbo closed his eyes tightly and hugged him back. "See if I ever let you out of my sight again! Hobbits, bad for the heart," Bofur muttered, and Bilbo let out a small, trembling laugh.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Bofur's scarf. "I'm okay though --"

"Better be! What were you thinking, you daft git?" Bofur chided, squeezing Bilbo before letting him go and nudging him toward the house. He seemed to know his way around, and Bilbo wondered if he had been there before. "You and your cousins aren't setting a foot anywhere without me to check your path from now on, you hear me? And don't think I've forgiven you, Bilbo Baggins, for leaving me a few years short of my lifespan!"

Bilbo accepted the scolding with a shy smile, and he did not miss the misty look in Bofur's mottled green eyes. They walked into the house together, joining his cousins and Beorn. As Bilbo watched his cousins and Beorn marvel over each other, he sat beside Bofur and smiled, rubbing at his eyes and sighing with great relief. His family was safe.

That night, Bilbo was unsurprised to find three other Hobbits in his bed.

"Don't even try," Otho told him archly with a sniff. Drogo glared, grabbing onto a pillow as if that would hold him there if Bilbo tried to drag him off the bed, and Rory simply ignored him, sorting through his bags.

"I wasn't going to," Bilbo protested mildly. He was pleased when Rory handed him some of his own clothes, and he went to clean his face and change with a small, happy smile. When he returned, all three of his cousins were tucked into bed, and Bilbo's spot was pressed against the wall, so that he would have to battle two Bagginses and a Brandybuck to escape in the night.

"What if I have to use the toilet?" There were only snickers in response. Rory then sat up on his elbow and pointed at the table, where Bilbo saw something glisten. 

"I carried them here for you," Rory told him solemnly, and Bilbo approached the table slowly, his heart seizing with untold emotion.

His key and two rings, tied to a bit of leather and unbroken. Bilbo picked them up and cradled them in his palm, something in him relaxing as he stroked Thorin's key, at the same time that something in him grew cold and anxious to see his gold ring brush his finger. Shadows creeped at the edge of his vision as he sighed deeply, tilting his head and lifting the trinkets.

 _If only I'd had this,_ Bilbo thought, staring down at the ring. _If only I had put it on before I saw Bolg -- if only I had worn it -- my ring. Mine,_ he thought, and he saw himself hiding from Bolg and watching him, saving the Dwarf who had died, alerting Balin and Bofur, protecting his kin, running away, vanishing --

"Bilbo?" Rory asked, and Bilbo felt the great noise in his ears die away. He blinked, and the world was back to normal, the shadows gone. He rubbed at his eyes and decided it was time for sleep; he had not slept well these past nights, and he looked forward to cuddling with his cousins.

"Thank you, Rory," Bilbo managed to say, tucking his most precious items into his pocket. He crawled into bed, avoiding knees and elbows with ease, and settled into his spot against the wall. Almost immediately, Drogo latched onto him; he had won some game earlier in the evening, and Bilbo suspected he was the prize.

"We're okay now," Bilbo whispered to them, and he watched as his cousins relaxed into sleep, Drogo's dark curls tucked under his chin.

Bilbo did not sleep, though. He stared at the ceiling and slid his hand into his pocket, gripping the key and rings tightly. He did not know which he touched more: the gold ring or Thorin's key, and that scared him most of all.

~

When Rory handed over Thorin's letter, the one from before Bilbo's kidnapping, the next day, he did it with an eyebrow waggle that Bilbo made sure to ignore. He then distracted Rory with strawberries and retreated to his room, shutting the door and pulling open the soft blue ribbon with a faintly anxious smile. He wished to read Thorin's words; but he had been so forward in that letter! What would Thorin think!

But Thorin was as open and kind as ever. He responded to Bilbo's worries and spoke at great length about cities of the East, including the Iron Hills and the nations of Men to the South and far beyond the Greenwood. He fretted over Drogo, which made Bilbo very happy, and he grudgingly apologized about blaming Bofur for the whole Rivendell ordeal. Bilbo had the impression that Thorin did not like Elves very much.

But it was Thorin's response to Bilbo's mention of Azog that left him breathless:

> _[...] must know that you are not only a hobbit. You are a brave, clever, powerful, brilliant, intelligent, strong person, and I am proud to know you for the great deeds you have done and for the intimate knowledge you have shared with me in our letters._
> 
> _I will always curse Azog for what he did to you. I wish I had known of your existence sooner. I had heard about you as well, but I had not known it at the time. The other hobbits spoke of someone who bore Azog's wrath, but I had no idea what it meant until I met you. While he was planning to kill me, he was already tormenting you, and I wish every day I had known. I wish I had hunted him down quicker. It should not have taken seven years to save you._
> 
> _You need not thank me for what I should have done sooner, for what I will continue to do so long as we know each other._
> 
> _I think you have borne the weight of others' pain and worries for too long, Bilbo. I do not wish to add to them. You have suffered too greatly. I want only to ease your mind. But I will trust in you, and I will seek your advice -- for how can I not, when you are so brilliantly sure of what is right?_
> 
> _Know this, though: what we have given each other is only pages in history to others. To me, and to you I hope, the ties that connect us mean more than words can describe. This is a strange thing between us. Something is growing where there should have been nothing; we may never have met, had you stayed in your Shire and I in my mountain. The bond we have forged is greater than we can understand, but I am not afraid of it. It is bewildering but not fearsome, and we can only bow to the strength of it._
> 
> _It worries me that I have grown so fond of you in so short a time. That has become my greatest fear: that you will disappear and that I will be unable to stop it._
> 
> _My desires, my hopes, my dreams, my kingdom, they all vary from day to day as I work for my people. But for you, they never change. I wish you to be safe and well and happy. Should I feel so much for so small a hobbit? It does not matter what 'should' be, but what is, and that is the truth._
> 
> _Always,  
>  Thorin_

Bilbo sat for a long time, holding the letter tightly, overwhelmed by Thorin's dreadful insight and the sweet honesty of his admission. To know Thorin had worried for him so greatly? To know that he was not alone in the strength of his feelings that he could not hope to understand? And then --

_The other hobbits spoke of someone who bore Azog's wrath, but I had no idea what it meant until I met you._

Thorin _knew_. He knew what they had called Bilbo; there was no other meaning to those lines. What had he heard? What did he know? But not once did Thorin say the word, not once did he imply that Bilbo was pitiable for his past with Azog. And he still admitted that he cared for Bilbo? That he _felt_ for Bilbo, and did not want to let go of him?

It was enough to make his heart seize with something like pain but -- more. Enough to tighten the breath in his chest until he felt dizzy. Enough that he could not make sense of anything, though he read Thorin's words again and again, until they blurred and he bowed his head.

He did not know how to feel, and for the next two weeks, he thought of little else when he was not busy with Beorn and his family.

~*~

> _To **Khuzdibâh** Bilbo Baggins:_
> 
> _Greetings and salutations from myself, Princess Regent Dís of Erebor, on this spring morning of the second week of our fifth month. I extend my pleasure at knowing that you are safe and well from harm, and I thank you for your service in my brother Thorin's war. He would not have come home without you, and for that you have my eternal gratitude, and a hopeful offer of friendship between the two of us and our peoples._
> 
> _I have been told that you seek to rebuild your Shire in the vale near the house of Beorn our ally. My brother has stated that you wish to buy materials from Dale and Erebor, and that you represent your people as an ambassador. As Master of Guilds for Erebor, I would be happy to procure contracts for you and your people in this time of need. You might want to keep this from Thorin for a while; it seems he thinks he should manage my job. I like to keep him on his toes, and you seem to be a good ally in that regard._
> 
> _We have standard rates that we apply to our allies, and as you are **khuzdibâh** and have saved my brother's life, I will grant special rates for you and your kin. First there is the matter of stonework, which is controlled by three separate guilds that deal with imports, exports, and internal affairs [...]_

~

> _Dear Thorin,_
> 
> _Your apology is not needed, but I thank you for it in any case. I should be able to care for myself, and I was reckless when Bolg found me. Do not blame yourself at all. I trusted you to protect me back then, and you did, but since then, how can I possibly hold you to that promise when we are far apart? Please don't apologize for that._
> 
> _I received the other letter you had sent before my unfortunate side trip, and I have yet to respond properly, but know that your words are at the front of my mind when I am not busy, and even when I am. I need to think about what you said before I can reply properly to you, so please wait for me._
> 
> _I am very sorry though. For disappearing, when that was what you feared the most. It will never happen again. I'm sorry. I am safe now._
> 
> _I cannot believe you would try to come here, for me of all people! You are not to leave your kingdom for a single hobbit, Thorin Oakenshield! I am well and safe, as I have told you, and you really should apologize to your family for worrying them._
> 
> _That being said, it makes me happy to know you would have come. I have your key again, and I will never lose it again._
> 
> _Your kin did not need to travel all this way, but I will welcome them all the same. I look forward to meeting your family. Beorn doesn't seem to like dwarves very much, but he has said he wants to meet them. He said he met Princess Dís before, but not your nephews or brother._
> 
> _Bofur arrived with my cousins, just as promised, and he made a very interesting face when I told him about Prince Regent Frerin and Prince Kíli. I can't tell whether he is delighted or disturbed. But he is well, and I am thankful to him for protecting my family. My cousins are well and have fallen in love with the Vale as I have. We have begun the layout for the first smial, with Beorn's help [...]_

~

> _Bilbo,_
> 
> _May the spring warmth treat you well. The mountain is lush with honeysuckle, and Dís is still angry with me for trying to sneak away. I told her you had chastised me, and she laughed and said she looks forward to meeting you. I can't imagine why you want to work with her. I have already apologized enough but she still frowns at me. The kingdom thinks she is in the right, of course; they love her more than me. I think she misses Kíli. He is her youngest and he has never gone so far from home before._
> 
> _How does the planning go? I am only vaguely familiar with how hobbit homes are constructed and cannot imagine it will be easy with the recent rain. I can order supplies if you wish it; everything can be there in a matter of weeks. Just say the word._
> 
> _I will wait for your response. You need not rush to answer me._
> 
> _As you told me about hobbit families in your last letter, I will return with the major lines of my kin. First there is Durin and his sons, and I am his direct descendant. There are sister lines through second sons and other siblings, and they are of Ín and are close cousins to me, always lords or ladies of the court [...]_

~*~

By some rare luck of his, Bofur was welcomed into Beorn's house for the two weeks that Bilbo's family stayed with him. Some argument had happened between them long after Bilbo and the boys had gone to bed, that first night, but neither would say a word about it, and somehow the next day they were as if the best of friends. Bofur gave Bilbo a wink and said slyly, "Me and Beorn go way back," while Beorn made grumbling noises. Bilbo was mystified by both of them.

Rory, Otho, and Drogo fell in love with the Vale immediately. Currently, they were off with Beorn, who was showing them tricks of the land -- or more likely, managing them as they got into trouble. Bofur was snoring loudly in one of the back rooms, and Bilbo was enjoying the morning outside, writing letters and drawing more plans for smials and roadways. Bilbo snorted to himself, dipping his pen into his inkwell and beginning to write, drawing Thorin's name slowly with a smile.

> _Dear Thorin,_
> 
> _I write to you with my pen in one hand and my other on a strawberry tart. Spring is warming quickly to summer! We have drawn up plans for how the Vale should look, and I have placed my first order for supplies with the good Princess Dís. You might be surprised by that fact! She tells me you are ignoring her at the moment._
> 
> _If you had bothered to ask your sister, you would have learned that I have been negotiating with her at Bofur's behest. She sent me the first letter and begged me not to tell you, but now that everything is coming together, I cannot continue to hide it from you. Your offer of assistance is appreciated but unnecessary. I ordered shipments of stone and metal, and I have procured the services of five blacksmiths to manage anything we may need during building._
> 
> _Princess Dís was very helpful in working out payment negotiations, which thanks to your unspoken gift I can now more than afford. She has granted me a credit until I send the payment to Erebor, and I cannot express my gratitude for her excellent advice and sharp mind for business. My father would certainly approve of her!_
> 
> _I have not yet seen_

"Are you sure we can just walk in, uncle? Those ponies looked very suspicious! And I didn't like the way the white one was eyeing Adeline," asked a young, accented voice.

"Your pony can defend herself if need arises," a deeper voice answered wryly.

Bilbo recognized the accent, though not the voices. He ignored the way his heart leapt as he looked up from his letter, brushing away pastry crumbles when he realized that two Dwarves were walking into the yard. Both had keen eyes that took in every detail, including Bilbo's raised eyebrows and the bits of strawberry on his fingers.

Bilbo quickly set his letter aside, hiding it under his ink well, and wiped himself with a handkerchief. "Good morning!" he called, unnamed emotion twisting in his belly when the blond Dwarf looked at him curiously with a familiar unnerving blue gaze. He hid it with a smile, and after a moment the Dwarf nodded to him. The younger Dwarf grinned at him and walked right up to Bilbo's bench. His dark eyes gleamed as he surveyed Bilbo's hurriedly tucked handkerchief while he stood to meet the Dwarves.

"Ho! A Halfling in these parts? You must be related to Mr. Boggins!" the younger Dwarf exclaimed, and Bilbo felt a laugh catch in his throat.

"That would be Baggins, Kíli," the older Dwarf said with a sigh. His blue gaze caught on Bilbo's throat, where a makeshift leather string hung with three shining trinkets, and lingered there for a moment. "And I do believe you are speaking to _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins himself. Frerin, at your service," the blond Dwarf said to Bilbo, bowing politely, and Kíli's face lit up with awe and embarrassment.

"And Kíli! My apologies, _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins." Kíli said hurriedly as he bowed after his uncle, then he frowned in confusion. "I thought you had been kidnapped."

Bilbo felt a smile appear on his face, enthralled by Thorin's family. He could see Thorin's stern mouth on Frerin's face, matching his blue eyes which somehow did not affect him as Thorin's gaze did. He saw Thorin's dark hair on Kíli's head, though Kíli seemed to sport a poor beard compared to his uncles. He admired both of them, and suddenly he yearned to see Thorin in their place. 

Bilbo shook off the thought and bowed; for some reason, he felt more comfortable in their presence than he had in any Dwarf's company in some time, save Bofur, Balin, and Thorin himself.

"Bilbo Baggins, at yours. I was indeed, and it was most unfortunate, but I was rescued quite promptly by Beorn. He is away at the moment with my cousins, but they should be back later. I've been told to welcome you inside to rest and eat in his stead," he explained, gesturing grandly to the open doors. "I'd be happy to tell you about my adventure. You can just call me Bilbo," he said shyly. "Thorin, er, King Thorin told me you were on your way to save me. I do apologize for making you come all this way."

Kíli looked quite excited at the prospect of a story, while Frerin regarded Bilbo evenly, before he tilted his head with a small smile. "Thorin, hm?" Frerin murmured, and Bilbo felt a vivid flush sweep over his face and up to his ears. He had to avert his eyes quickly. Bilbo felt that blue gaze study him, seeing past the stutters in his speech, then drawing down to the way Bilbo's hand went to his necklace. "Then we accept his hospitality. I am glad to see that you are safe, _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins. Ah, Bilbo," he corrected himself at Bilbo's halted look, his gaze glinting with amusement. Bilbo had to stop himself from reaching over to grab his letter. Only when Frerin looked away did Bilbo allow himself the movement.

Kíli seemed to notice none of this, looking around the yard with great interest. "Beorn must be massive! I'd heard it so, and I'd seen him in Erebor before, but I've not met him! Is he really as tall as a tree?" Kíli asked Bilbo eagerly as they entered the house.

"Well, he certainly is much taller than any Hobbit or dwarrow," Bilbo replied. Frerin glanced at him for the dwarf-word, but already Kíli had drawn Bilbo into telling his story. Bilbo enjoyed the audience; Kíli reacted at just the right times, and he felt his natural shyness ebbing away as he spoke at length with the young Dwarf.

Frerin asked many questions about Bolg and his company, and Bilbo answered as best as he could. Kíli let his uncle handle those questions, but he made some insightful comments himself, and Bilbo felt his admiration for Thorin's family grow more as they spoke. He was charmed; he could not wait to meet Dís, who was lovely in her letters, and Fíli, of whom Kíli spoke often.

Kíli was telling Bilbo about his latest adventure in Dale -- some terrible story that would rival Bofur's tales, about chickens and a garrison -- when Bilbo's closest friend stumbled from the hallway, blinking blearily at uncle and nephew at the table. His hat was crooked and he looked as if he had dressed hurriedly; undoubtedly startled by the presence of the royal family.

"Blimey, I would've been up earlier if I'd a'thought you'd be here today," Bofur said, scratching at his chest, and Bilbo hid his grin behind his hand. "Morning, highnesses! Er, seems Bilbo was already rescued." Bofur looked rather sheepish, and Bilbo bowed his head behind his tall tankard of milk, his shoulders trembling with his muffled giggles.

"Oh, hello, Bofur," Kíli said with a noncommittal shrug. Then he grinned. "We noticed that. Uncle Thorin was beside himself, you know, worrying over his Hobbit -- er, _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins --"

Bilbo's laughter stopped abruptly.

"He was anxious to reach you indeed," Frerin said mildly, and both Bilbo and Bofur twitched. "Good to see you, Bofur. Come and join us. Do you have news from Balin?"

"Aye," Bofur said slowly, glancing between Bilbo's red cheeks and Frerin's pleased expression. Kíli looked gleeful, while Bilbo tried desperately to blend in with the table. He had thought Thorin was joking, in a way, when he had implied that he had tried to leave Erebor, but perhaps -- perhaps Thorin had truly been desperate to reach him.

_His Hobbit._

Just as Bilbo had despaired of ever seeing him again, those hours in Bolg's grasp. He tuned out most of the conversation, busying himself with some creamy cheese and bread, a bit of jam to top off the treat. The sheep had such excellent skills with baking; he would have to ask for tips.

"Since _khuzdibâh_ Baggins is safe, there is little need to go gallivanting off into the wilderness now. We should visit Balin in Khazad-dûm and survey its halls, but on our return, would you like to accompany us to Erebor, Bilbo?" Frerin asked, and Bilbo was torn from his contemplation of his breakfast by the question. He shot Frerin a wide-eyed look, and then -- his heart was beating faster. Sweat gathered at his palms, and he fretted, panic sudden in the back of his mind.

To see Thorin so soon?

"Um," he tried to say, but his throat closed up and he could only stare at the table instead. He felt all three Dwarves staring at him, but he could not answer; he could not imagine it. He was not ready -- he was not okay yet, he was not prepared, he was not _whole_ yet and Thorin did not deserve to meet him like this --

"'Scuse us, highnesses, seems Bilbo needs a bit of air," Bofur said cheerfully, gently pulling Bilbo from the table and leading him outside. When they were some feet from the house, Bilbo gasped in a great gulp of air and hid his face in his hands, feeling his nerves racing.

"I must look like a great fool," he groaned to Bofur, who rubbed his back and snorted.

"No, you don't, Bilbo. You're okay. Just sit quiet for a minute," Bofur told him gently, and Bilbo followed his instruction, closing his eyes and leaning into his comforting touch. When at last he could breathe without his chest seizing, he looked miserably at his friend.

"How can I meet Thorin if the mere thought of it makes me react like this?" he asked, not quite meeting Bofur's gaze as his cheeks flushed.

Bofur only looked thoughtful. "Frerin and Kíli are going to Khazad-dûm for a bit, yeah?" he asked, and Bilbo nodded cautiously. "You've been working with Dís through your letters, and a lot of what needs to be done can be finished that way. You never have to go up there if you don't want to, Bilbo. You can send your payments with Kíli and Frerin, if Dís figures the numbers quickly enough."

 _But I want to see Thorin,_ was Bilbo's immediate response, deep in his mind, though he could hardly utter the words. Bofur saw his expression though, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling.

"Think about it a few days, then. Give yourself some time. There's no shame in waiting," he told Bilbo, who managed a small smile.

"What would I do without you?" he asked Bofur, who only chuckled.

"Great things, Bilbo. Always great and wonderful things. Come on, I'm sure Kíli's already spying on us, and Frerin's not far behind," he told Bilbo, turning them around -- and his words rang true, for Kíli ducked back into the house quickly, and Frerin tried to look as if he had not been leaning out the window, obviously trying to listen.

Bilbo was reminded of Thorin throwing open the tent entrance, thinking that his soldiers were mothering him, with his sheepish expression at seeing Bilbo instead. "I quite like them," he told Bofur quietly, and his friend beamed.

~

> _I have not yet seen these mountains in the summer, and I look forward to it. The Vale is beautiful, and the colors of the flowers astound me every time I walk through the hills. The Vale will be grand once we have completed building._
> 
> _You will be pleased to know that your brother and sister-son have arrived at Beorn's house safely. They spent two days with us before they left to visit Khazad-dûm, and they said they would not stay there long. Only enough to view the halls and spend some time with Balin, so Frerin said._
> 
> _Your family is very charming. I quite like them, especially Kíli, who reminds me of my cousins. It should not surprise you that Rory and the boys get along very well with Kíli, in what will likely be a dangerous friendship. I can only hope Fíli is more level-headed than his brother._
> 
> _I thought about what you said before, in the letter before my kidnapping. I don't know what you heard of me and I do not think I wish to know now. I cannot explain what happened between Azog and myself. It was needed. There was no one else who could handle him. It's over now, and it is only over because you saved me. Please do not apologize for not being there sooner. You could not have rushed in to save one person that you did not know, but I am always, always thankful that you came. I will always be thankful for meeting you when I did._
> 
> _You told me this was a strange thing between us, that something is growing where there should have been nothing. That the bond we forged is something greater than we can understand, and we can only bow to the strength of it._
> 
> _I will always want to thank you for what you have done for me. I will always want to reach for you, to be someone you can rely on, to tell you again and again that I owe you everything. I daresay I shouldn't need someone so completely, and the depth of this connection in so short a time worries me. But I think I will always seek you out, whether for advice or just to talk about the flowers. I think our bond is something special, and I want to hold it safe, to know that you will always be there for me, and that I will always be there for you._
> 
> _I will not disappear again, so soon after breaking free of that life, nor ever if I can help it. Rest easy and know that this is true. I hope to see you soon._
> 
> _Always,  
>  Bilbo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my darlings! My deepest apologies for taking so long with this chapter. It had to be perfect, and I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for your amazing support!!!
> 
> Thank you as ever to kaavyawriting and tribumvirate!! I would not be here without either of you.


	35. Interlude: In remembrance

> _How could you let him get captured? After my promise to him, after our vow to protect his people? After everything he did for us, we look away to drink and carouse for one moment and he was taken, Balin! If a hobbit enters your halls then you will safeguard every moment of their stay! When I could not protect him, I left the duty to you and to Bofur, and yet you both have failed me! I am outraged at this slight upon [...]_

"Didn't you just get a letter from Thorin yesterday?" asked Frerin as he slid into the chair beside Balin, beginning to fill his plate. Kíli fell into the chair across the table from them and reached blindly for the pot of thick coffee, not paying any attention to Balin's indignant huff.

"Aye, and two the day before you arrived, lad. I'm just glad he's another mountain away, because at least I don't have to hear his grumbling in person! That temper of his will be the end of him," Balin sighed, passing the letter over to Frerin and tucking into his own breakfast.

Frerin took the letter and read it as he sipped from his mug, his thick eyebrows slowly inching up with every ink splatter that raged across the parchment. "Still a bit upset over the Halfling, isn't he," he said slowly. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he smoothed it down when Balin shot him a frustrated look.

"I don't deny our fault in letting an Orc into our halls after the work we did over the winter, but still! Bilbo is safe with Beorn now, yet Thorin was so worried he sent you and Kíli to track the boy? And he has not stopped even since we learned that Bilbo was saved!"

"We volunteered," Kíli interjected sleepily, but Balin carried on as if he had not heard.

"Even half a world away, I still bear the brunt of his temper! It's like he doesn't read a word of my letters," Balin continued, taking back the letter and tucking it into his pocket. "Even Dís cannot make him see reason. She told me he wasn't speaking to her because _Bilbo is working with her and not him_." Balin rolled his eyes.

Frerin let out a small laugh. "Dís will handle him. All this fuss over a little Halfling, hm? Though he is an interesting sort."

Balin's furrowed eyebrows smoothed with a small smile. "Aye, he is a good lad. There is no reason for Thorin's obsession, though. If I didn't know any better," he muttered into his mug. 

Frerin's gaze sharpened, and he watched Balin curiously. "If you didn't know any better?"

Balin shook his head. "It's nothing, lad. The idea of it is nigh impossible, anyway. It's just, Thorin is acting just like a dwarrow who has... mm, no. Never mind me."

Frerin hummed in reply, his gaze still keen as he watched Balin, who eyed him with a small frown. "Well, he did give Bilbo that key," Frerin offered, which made Balin snort.

"Aye, and only told Dwalin and me about it the day before. As I said, obsessed." Frerin raised his eyebrows at that admission, his gaze turning sharp.

"He had it commissioned before he told you? Where did he get the metal for it?"

"That's the oddest part of the whole business," Balin replied, looking speculative. "The key itself is made of mithril, and I know for a fact that Thorin had a buckle of it for his belt, and he did not go home with it. Your father gave him that buckle after wearing it for half his life, and Thorin had it melted into a key! For the sake of our _khuzdibâh_ , no less."

"The one with the blue stone on his belt? I remember when Father gave him that," Frerin murmured.

"Do you think Uncle Thorin gave Bilbo that ring as well?" Kíli asked suddenly, looking far more awake now, already into his second cup of coffee.

Frerin and Balin blinked at him, identical expressions of confusion crossing their faces. "What ring do you mean, lad?" Balin asked, frowning.

Kíli stared back at him with a wide-eyed gaze that fooled neither Dwarf. "The dwarf-ring on his necklace. It was hanging with the key," he said matter-of-factly, and both of his elders looked dismayed.

"What do you mean, dwarf-ring? What did it look like?" Frerin asked, fixing Kíli with a stern gaze that made the younger dwarrow hasten to respond.

"It was gold with a big blue stone. Like this," Kíli said, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket and stealing Balin's quill, drawing a quick sketch. He held it out for his uncle, who took the paper with a raised eyebrow, while Balin began to frown.

"Giving the lad the key _and_ a ring? Maybe I'm not imagining things," Balin muttered, but he suddenly stopped when his gaze landed on the drawing. Frerin stared down at the paper, not believing what he was seeing, and he did not object when Balin snatched the paper from his fingers.

"Kíli, are you certain it looks like this?" Frerin asked, his voice going low, and Kíli nodded, looking at both of them in surprise.

"Yeah, that's the one. Why? Is it really Uncle Thorin's?" asked Kíli with a sudden grin, but it faded as Frerin and Balin exchanged a troubled glance.

"No, lad. If it is the same one, then this ring belonged to Thráin, and it has been lost since your grandfather died at Azog's hands," Balin explained, and Kíli's eyes widened. They all knew what had happened to Thráin, at the end of his life, but few had known about the Ring of Power that Thráin had taken with him wherever he went -- even into death.

Or so they had thought.

"The Ring of Power," Frerin murmured. "How did Bilbo get it?"

"He lived here for seven years. He must have found it, but does he know what it is? You don't think he stole it?" Balin asked Frerin, looking worried.

Frerin opened his mouth to reply, but Kíli was already speaking with a small scoff. "If he had stolen it, he wouldn't have let either of us see it, would he? He had his necklace out the whole time we were visiting. He wore it with the key, so obviously he treasured it, but if he really knew what it was and intended to keep it, he would not have shown it to _Thráin's son_ , would he?"

Frerin watched him, and Kíli glanced away at the rebuke in his gaze for interrupting. Then Frerin thought of the time they had spent at Beorn's house, eating meals and talking with Bilbo Baggins, whose hand had stroked his necklace fondly several times throughout the day. "Then he would not know what it is, either. Perhaps he merely found it, or perhaps he took it from Azog. We do not know what Azog did with my father's body, Mahal rest his soul, but he most certainly took anything of value from him. Perhaps it was in that treasure room and Bilbo found it when he found those weapons," Frerin said thoughtfully. Balin looked troubled, while Kíli watched them both, his dark eyes glinting.

"It should be returned to Thorin. It is the birthright of your family," Balin said with a small frown.

"We will ask Bilbo, then. Kíli, we will leave today," Frerin decided, and Kíli nodded obediently. The scrap of paper sat on the table between them, detailing a heavy ring with a large, squarish gem, mirroring the one that hung on Bilbo Baggin's neck. Thorin's obsession with Bilbo Baggins was forgotten -- for the moment.

~

On the other side of the mountain, Elrond's house was in an uproar when Erestor woke and dressed for the day. He heard footsteps running outside his room; an oddity for sure, as the Elves of Rivendell were rarely so lively this early. When he went to find breakfast, he heard the harried tones of Lindir and his assistants as he approached the courtyard, and he saw Glorfindel standing under an awning at the edge of the walkway.

Erestor heard the commotion long before he walked into the courtyard, and when he came to stand beside Glorfindel, who was strangely silent for all that he was quick to tease Erestor, he could only stare at the chaos that had invaded Elrond's halls.

Hobbits. Dozens of Hobbits, most of them coughing and hunched over with age and illness, with hands and ears so tiny they could belong to children. Many of them had whitened curls that bounced against their tanned, wrinkled faces, and they had many laugh lines, but such exhaustion. Such pain and weariness in those old faces that had seen too much. Younger Hobbits accompanied them, clearly relatives and guardians, or just as ill, milling around and staring wide-eyed at Elrond's home.

Beside him, Glorfindel took a breath.

"Don't say it," Erestor muttered, and he noticed Glorfindel's dismay but was distracted by a very old Hobbit stopping in front of them and squinting up at Glorfindel. She had a cane and a green shawl around her shoulders, and though she hobbled and hacked into her handkerchief, the glint in her eye was dangerous to any Elf brave enough to meet her gaze. She had a severe frown on her face, and she did not seem impressed with either of them.

"You," she said imperiously to Glorfindel, pointing to a Hobbit nearby, who was struggling with a large chest atop one of the carts. "Help him."

Erestor stared at Glorfindel. Glorfindel stared at the Hobbit. The Hobbit sniffed and muttered into her handkerchief, thin fingers grasping her cane as she wiped at her mouth. The handkerchief was stained grey.

"Yes, my lady," Glorfindel said finally, and he went without another word to the struggling Hobbit and plucked the chest out of his hands, carrying it deeper into the halls where Lindir was already guiding their guests into rooms. The younger Hobbit followed him as if in a daze.

Erestor stayed very still as the old Hobbit turned her eagle eye on him. Anyone who could glare Glorfindel into submission so quickly was to be respected and feared.

"You may call me Great Aunt Adaldrida," the Hobbit said finally, giving a mighty sniff and placing both of her hands, that had tiny scars that he had seen before on another Hobbit, on her cane as she stared Erestor down. "None of that Mother Brandybuck poppycock."

Erestor raised an eyebrow. "Of course, Great Aunt Adaldrida," he said smoothly. "Are you related to young Rorimac, by any chance?"

Her gaze flashed with interest. "Oh, have you met my grandson? Did he behave himself for my Bilbo?" she asked, tapping her cane, and Erestor smiled at the mention of his favorite Hobbit.

"He was quite the gentlehobbit. Bilbo took good care of the boys during their visit," he murmured. "Come, Great Aunt Adaldrida, let me introduce you to my Lord Elrond. Would you like to rest, or may I show you around Rivendell?"

Adaldrida Brandybuck snuffled loudly and stared Erestor down for another moment, then sighed deeply as if the world had done a great injustice to her. Erestor thought that it had, and he hoped she would find some semblance of peace here.

"My boy, I have lived a very long life, and I am very tired. But I was told that there are flowers here, and I should like to see them before my heart gives one last beat. If you would find me a bench near some flowers, I would be much obliged," Adaldrida told Erestor, and her sharp gaze was even as she spoke of her own death.

"We have many flowers, indeed, Great Aunt Adaldrida," Erestor replied, as enamored as he had been with Bilbo, yet twice as sad for meeting this old soul who bore Bilbo's scars. He called over Elrond to introduce her, and Elrond met his gaze to hear 'Brandybuck,' a familiar name now. Then Erestor and Adaldrida walked to the garden together, and if Adaldrida was very slow, Erestor's pace was serene as he matched her gait, telling her that the garden they were visiting was Rorimac and Bilbo's favorite.

Adaldrida smiled when she saw the flowers, her wrinkles softening in memory, with the simple love of a well-tended garden. "I used to grow roses, you know," she told Erestor, and they sat together for some time and talked of many things.

~

"Can you hear what that prince is saying?"

"Ow, get your elbow out of my face, you little --"

"Shush, both of you, I'm trying to listen!"

Three young Hobbits knelt in the shadows of a hallway, pointed ears pressed to the thick spruce door, straining to hear the conversation within. Rory pushed back with his shoulder against Drogo, who only leaned more heavily against him, and Otho scowled at the backs of their heads, craning his head closer to the keyhole.

"...priceless heirloom. That it was found at all is astonishing. It has been in my family since King Durin III. So you must understand --"

"Oh, then I should give it back to Thorin. I'd no idea it had belonged to your father! It was just sitting in the treasure room. I picked it up on a lark."

There was a long pause, and the Hobbits heard the quiet wonder in Frerin's voice when he finally responded. "You have my gratitude, Bilbo."

"Of course, Frerin." 

There was another long moment of silence, and the three Hobbits pressed closer together, determined to hear more of the conversation.

Then a heavy body sat down beside them, and then --

"Did you hear that?"

"Oh, it was probably just the boys. They get along with Kíli very well --"

"I will speak to him later about being rowdy under Beorn's hospitality."

Rory stared at Kíli, shaking with the effort to hold in his shriek beneath Drogo's hand. Otho shoved Drogo's other hand away and hissed angrily at Kíli, _What do you think you're doing?_ but Kíli only grinned at them and touched his finger to his mouth.

The four of them crouched together, listening to Bilbo and Frerin inside.

"This might have been what Bolg sought when he snuck into Khazad-dûm," Bilbo said quietly, and Frerin sucked in a sharp breath.

"You may be correct. A gold ring... and he would have known of the existence of this ring, given his relationship to Azog the Defiler," Frerin murmured thoughtfully. Bilbo was quiet, and cloth rustled as someone moved. Someone breathed deeply, and the boys smelled the heady scent of pipe-weed a moment later.

"Azog never noticed it was missing, not the ring or my sword. I hid them away where no Orc would bother to venture. I wonder if he realized what it was."

"Mm, there is no telling now... but I wonder how Bolg knew, if the Defiler did not. I wonder who his master is, to command him into a mountain of dwarrows for that ring."

Something small and metal clinked, and through the keyhole, Otho saw Bilbo take off his necklace, pulling his two rings from the chain and tucking one into his pocket, then passing the other with its heavy stone to Frerin.

"Astonishing," Frerin murmured. "I remember when my father wore it, but I did not recognize it until Kíli pointed out its existence. He thought Thorin had given it to you."

"N-no, he just gave me the key. Though I admit he gifted me far more, less in material but just as great in meaning," Bilbo replied, his voice going softer. "I understand you wish it to be kept safe... but may I carry it there and present it to him myself? It would be only right, after all he did for me."

The four sneaking boys stared at each other in shock, while inside the room, Frerin stared at Bilbo in keen interest, fingers stroking his thick mustache. His suspicions were strengthening every time Thorin and Bilbo spoke of each other, and he wondered what Dís would think of the development. Bilbo's cheeks were pink, but he met Frerin's gaze evenly, resolution burning in those dark eyes.

"It is time that I met Thorin again, and how better than this? To repay him for what he did for me... and to continue the arrangements for the Vale. I would like to go to Erebor with you and Kíli." His gaze shifted briefly toward the door, but Frerin did not seem to notice.

Frerin tilted his head. "I would be happy to escort you, _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins. Ah, Bilbo," he amended with a faint smile.

"We've been spotted," Otho breathed, and the four eavesdroppers scrambled to escape, Hobbit feet silent against the wooden floor while the young Dwarf followed with nary a sound. They ended up in Rory's room, closing the door as Kíli slipped in behind them. The four boys stared at each other, still stunned by the conversation they overheard, before Kíli let out a whoop.

"You're coming to Erebor!" he exclaimed, and Rory looked both pleased and disgruntled with the idea, while Drogo and Otho exchanged glances. "You'll love Erebor, and you can meet Fíli the moment we reach the halls, and I can show you around myself! I know every tunnel in the mountain," Kíli said proudly, and Rory snorted.

"For spying, obviously," he retorted, and while Kíli sputtered in shock, Otho and Drogo leaned toward each other.

"He's hardly sleeping already, and now we're going to travel again? Blast it," Otho cursed, while Drogo muttered and rubbed at his shoulder.

"If we're all going, then we'll take turns watching him. Important meeting with King Thorin or not, I'm not letting Bilbo go another day without a full night's sleep."

Otho gave him a scowl. "Of course we're all going. I'm not leaving Bilbo alone."

Drogo's expression eased, and he regarded his cousin with a small smile. "Neither am I."

They both watched Rory and Kíli argue good-naturedly. Neither Baggins boy liked to travel, but they had agreed a long time ago to do anything in their power to stay at Bilbo's side. So far, Bilbo had disappeared twice, both times because of Orcs, and though Kíli had told them about the safety of the Greenwood, they would not lessen their guard over their cousin's safety.

Bilbo was all they had left, after all, with the small number of kin that now traveled from the Shire. Where Rory had taken it upon himself to keep Bilbo from fading emotionally, Drogo and Otho were determined to watch Bilbo's physical state. They would keep him safe. They would not lose him, not like they had their own families.

Rory was another matter altogether. Drogo's eyebrows creased as he watched Rory, noting the stress lines around his eyes and the way he stayed out of Kíli's reach. Otho leaned toward him again, his gaze sliding to Kíli.

"I'll stay with Rory tonight. You'll watch Bilbo?" Otho whispered.

Drogo nodded. Sometimes Rory could fool them into thinking that he had never seen anything terrible in his life -- almost. His cheerful grin and sly looks could never completely hide the ways he avoided physical confrontation. Drogo and Otho understood; they had been watching over Rory as long as they had been taking care of Bilbo. They had not forgotten.

~

Many years before Thorin had taken the throne, his grandfather Thrór had called a great number of goldsmiths together to create what would be his crowning glory: a massive statue of solid gold in his likeness, to be displayed in the center of his great hoard of treasure.

He had not allowed a single coin to be melted down, instead ordering a three-year-long expedition into one of the heaviest of the gold-veins in the mountain, so deep that the earth glowed near the bottom of the caves.

One month before the statue's completion, Thrór had died at Azog the Defiler's hands. Thráin had dismissed the project, sending the gold to be turned into bars instead, and the great stones that had been painstakingly chiseled into the shape of their King were broken into rubble. Thráin had not sought the same recognition, but he had left the gold to sit and gather dust in the treasure rooms.

When he had died, too, and Thorin had become Erebor's ruler in his stead, he had erected two statues of stone in his father's and grandfather's image. In a move that still made him smirk to himself when he walked past, Thorin had placed the statues at the entrance to the largest of the treasure rooms. To walk into those rooms and see it so diminished in wealth, compared to the time of his father and grandfather, with Thrór's and Thráin's stern visages gazing over the jewels and neat stacks of gold, made Thorin feel vindicated.

Gold had been the downfall of his forefathers. He reminded himself every day that he would not be the same.

When he received Frerin's letter, though, that resolve flew out of his mind, dissipating with the force of the shocking words within.

_Bilbo Baggins has found Father's ring. He is coming to Erebor with us to return it to our family._

First was the simple shock that on top of everything Bilbo had already done for him, now it turned out that he had kept and protected the sacred ring of Durin's clan? Worn by every king since Durin III, the gold Ring of Power had been lost when Thráin had disappeared into Khazad-dûm.

Bilbo had found it unerringly amongst the jewels and gold in Azog's hoard and had tucked it away, thinking it a pretty trinket and never knowing how truly important it was. All Bilbo knew now was that it was an heirloom of Thorin's family; Frerin had chosen not to tell him more. Thorin did not blame him, though he would have trusted Bilbo with the knowledge.

He set down Frerin's letter on the desk and pulled out a box from one of his shelves, of silver and mahogany. Four white gems were nestled in the metal on top of the box, and runes had been gilded onto the gems with precision. Thorin pressed down on three of the gems in quick succession, waiting until he heard a click, then he slid a silver key into a space that had appeared beneath the fourth gem, turning it and opening the box.

All of Bilbo's letters rested within, and he picked up the one that spoke of Bilbo's capture by Bolg.

_He was looking for a ring, and he made me look for it as well. It was supposed to be gold, but nothing I found matched what he wanted. He thought you had taken it._

The ring had been inches from Bolg's grasp, and somehow, miraculously, Bilbo had lost his necklace in that scuffle. Thorin sometimes could not believe the luck that Bilbo possessed. He felt proud in that moment to know that Bilbo had survived so much with such temerity. Thorin would have his father's ring soon, and he would see Bilbo as well --

\-- _He is coming to Erebor_ \--

"Mahal," Thorin breathed, dropping the letter back in his box and hurriedly locking it again, nearly throwing it back onto the shelf in his haste to leave the room. "Bilbo is coming to Erebor!"

The matter of the ring was forgotten.

~

The caravan of ponies and carts traveled slowly as it moved across Eriador, but the small people walked with gaiety. Perhaps eight dozen Hobbits traveled together along the Great East Road, and each day was a step closer to the looming mountains that sent fear into the hearts of many of their company.

Yet they walked forward anyway, knowing that the Misty Mountains were only a hurdle in their long journey to their new home.

Tall Men walked with the Hobbits, Rangers of the North that guarded them from Orcs and monsters in the night. Their dark expressions and cloaked faces had, at first, scared the Hobbits, but beneath the cowls were men and women that had families of their own, who had grown to laugh and sit at ease with the Hobbits as they traveled.

When they came to the West-gate, though, the Rangers turned to leave them, and in their places appeared Dwarves, all different from the small company that had wintered with the Hobbits. But they were loud and boisterous, and they welcomed the Hobbits into the mountain that was brightly lit and warm with summer air. The trembles in those Hobbits that walked with limps or scars lessened a little at the comfort that the Dwarves offered during the two day walk into Khazad-dûm.

Suddenly the caves did not seem so terrifying.

All were not eased by the changes, though.

"No," whispered May Grubb to her aunt, who sighed as she brushed May's curls from her face.

"Sweetheart, we must go after the others now. The mountains are safe! Everything is fine," reassured Marigold Grubb, May's aunt through marriage to her uncle, her dark curls tied back under her only remaining hat. May's father and Marigold's husband had both died in Shirefall, and all she had was little May and her own son Rufus, and while Rufus was old enough to handle himself on the trip, May took all of her energy, with her young age and her fears born of these very mountains.

Not that Marigold would ever think of her young niece as a burden. The girl was precious to her, but sometimes it was just so hard to handle her. She took both of May's small hands in her own, kissing her little fingers and tugging her gently toward the great West-gate, which stood tall and open, brightly lit from inside.

" _No,_ " May whimpered again, pulling against Marigold's hands. "It's a bad place, Aunt Marigold." Her wide eyes stole to the side, where many Dwarves hovered by the wall, and beyond to her cousin Rufus who stood waiting inside the gate. Her eyes welled up with tears and she looked ready to panic.

Marigold knelt down in front of May and rested her forehead on her arms, still holding onto her small hands, frustrated with the girl, but she dared not pick May up and force her inside. She had learned long ago not to force May to do anything, else she would start crying or stop sleeping, sometimes even stop eating. Marigold felt tears prickling in her eyes, not knowing what else to do for her niece who was shaking with fear.

 _I forget, sometimes, what you have seen in your young life. I forget that you were hurt, and I forget to look after you like you deserve,_ she thought. "I'm so sorry, dear heart," she whispered.

A throat cleared beside her, and Marigold looked over to see a Dwarf with a round face and gentle eyes standing there. The Dwarf had golden-brown skin and a beard of fine red hair, braided with shining beads, clothed in sturdy boots and a long cloak of green. At first Marigold thought it was a man, before she recognized the swell of the Dwarf's chest and the softness in her mien. The dwarrowdam knelt beside her and smiled at May.

"Hullo," she said, and May peered at her in dismay, blinking through her teary gaze.

"Hello," May whispered back.

"My name is Aina, and I'm from Ered Luin. What's your name?" the Dwarf asked, and her voice was low and melodic. Marigold watched her hopefully, smiling when the Dwarf glanced at her with a wink.

After a moment, the little fauntling whispered, "May."

"That's a lovely name! What's a sweet little girl like you doing out here? Come now, it's still chilly at night in these parts. Won't you come in with your aunt? It's nice and bright inside, and I have some nice honey cakes I can share with you." Aina smiled encouragingly, but May's cheeks quivered as her eyes watered again.

"It's a bad place," May said again, her voice tiny against the wind outside. The sun had already set, and beyond the bright entrance, there were shadows and the creaking of heavy tree branches.

Aina hummed as Marigold let go of May's hands and pulled her close, rubbing her back, but May's dark eyes stayed on the dwarrowdam. "Why is it a bad place?" Aina asked after a moment, and Marigold looked over at her in shock, scarcely believing that someone did not know --

"Goblins," May whispered to her, but then her small mien twisted in thought. "But Bilbo said..."

That was new. "What did Bilbo say?" Marigold asked, tucking May's head under her chin, and May sniffed as she rubbed at her eyes. She knew that May looked up to Bilbo Baggins, a distant cousin of her husband, but this was the first time May had mentioned Bilbo in connection with the Misty Mountains.

"Bilbo said that Dwarves watch over the mountains, and that the goblins were gone," May told them both solemnly. Marigold and Aina exchanged glances, and Marigold was careful as she tucked May against her hip and stood. They turned together, and Aina pointed at the Dwarf guards that stood at the gate.

"Look there, little May. There aren't any goblins in there. Only dwarrows, big and strong and proud to protect you," Aina said with a smile, cheer in her voice, and the little Hobbit sniffed again, wrapping her small arms around Marigold's neck. She surveyed the West-gate with a watery gaze, before hiccupping and pressing her face against Marigold's shoulder. Her gaze swept to Aina again.

"Like Mister Bofur?" she asked, voice hushed.

Aina beamed at her and reached up to tap May's nose. "Just so," she replied. Marigold was astonished when May did not flinch as she usually did with strangers, and pride swelled in her chest. She cuddled May closer, giving Aina a grateful smile.

"Okay," May whispered, and Marigold finally entered the Misty Mountains with the young child, Aina walking beside her with a smile on her face. After a few minutes of walking, May fell asleep in Marigold's arms, and she sighed in relief.

"Thank you," she told Aina quietly, and the dwarrowdam grinned at her.

"You're quite welcome. I've had little ones of my own, though they're grown now. Poor dear," Aina murmured, watching May's curls bounce against Marigold's arm.

"I'm just glad she was tired enough to sleep," Marigold sighed, and Aina huffed a low laugh. "Is that your family?" she asked Aina, nodding toward a group of Dwarves that kept looking back at them. All three Dwarves had deep red hair, just like the woman beside her.

"Yes, my boys and brother. My husband died in the war here," Aina told her quietly, and Marigold felt a rush of affection for this woman who shared her loss.

"My husband died in Shirefall," she whispered back, and they shared a long look, the grief still fresh, but there was empathy between them. _Here is a woman I can trust,_ each thought, sharing a private smile. Just like that, a new friendship was born.

~

When the Hobbits entered Khazad-dûm, their progression was quiet with the knowledge of what had happened in these halls. The Dwarves were welcoming in every regard, but the Hobbits did not laugh or sing now. They held the hands of their shaking, scarred loved ones closely, knowing a little of what they had suffered in this place, and they did not falter as they walked forward, nor did they smile. How could they, knowing that this place was the origin of the fall of their Shire?

They knew Azog had died here, thanks to Bilbo Baggins. But so many more Hobbits had been lost to these halls, and in the two days they walked through the caves, they wondered:

Were the Orcs truly gone? Were there any remains of their dead kin left? Was the Hobbit hall cleared of its filth and straw mats? Was the arena still littered with bones? Were the black mushrooms still there, hidden in the shadows where only the pain-bearer could go?

Was it truly safe here?

The halls were clean of every last bone and bit of dirt. The shadows were chased away by great lanterns that shone bright colors on the shining walls. They could not smell the stench of Orc or blood, but stone and fire and pine instead. At every corner was another Dwarf, laughing or shouting or singing or walking along, alive and content. The Dwarves saw these halls as their sacred birthright, but at every corner, the Hobbits saw only the ghosts of their departed kin and the memories of the torture they had suffered.

The Lord of the halls, Balin son of Fundin, welcomed them himself.

"Be at ease in these halls, good Hobbits of the world!" Balin beamed, spreading his arms as they entered the main hall. The Hobbits stared at him, stiff with shock at the changed room. Every Hobbit who had once been a slave had been in this room at one point in the past eight years, but it looked nothing like Azog's throne room. It looked like a great dwarven hall, like the rest of the city did.

In the center of the hall, where there had once been a throne, there stood a statue, and every Hobbit in the hall stared at it in surprise.

It was of a Hobbit. The curly hair and large bare feet were finely detailed, and the face was as any other Hobbit face. The statue stood with one hand wrapped around a walking stick. There were flowers at the Hobbit's feet, and it was dressed in normal Hobbit clothes. It did not look particularly masculine or feminine. It was simply a Hobbit, as any Hobbit might look on a walk outside in the Shire.

Nestled amongst the flowers were large broken shackles. Resting on the Hobbit's chest was a key that shone in the lamplight of the great hall.

 _In remembrance,_ read the plaque at the bottom of the statue, in Westron with runes beneath. One by one, the Hobbits walked to the statue and touched it, stroking the face of the unknown Hobbit and staring down at the shackles, tracing the flowers. In the statue's face, they saw the memory of loved ones they had lost. They kissed the Hobbit's curls and turned away to weep, thankful that even amongst the dwarvish cheer, someone remembered that in this place, Hobbits had suffered and died.

Balin watched them in awe, once again thanking Bilbo Baggins for his forethought.

_"May I make a request, Balin?"_

_"Of course, lad. Whatever can I do for you?"_

_"I was wondering if you could craft something and put it somewhere for my kin to see when they come here. Something to let them know -- that while this place has changed for the better, that no one has forgotten what happened here. Just -- something that lets us know that we were not forgotten."_

_"No one could ever forget what was done to your people, Bilbo. But I will do my best for you, to honor those who fell here. It is the least I can do."_

~

_The two women sat together, heads bowed toward each other as they stared unseeing into the other world, the deep pool before them reflecting the endless sky. The lady in green's dark hand clasped the pale fingers of the lady in grey, and for once her friend's pale face was not awash with tears._

_"My children are healing," Yavanna murmured, smiling as she squeezed Nienna's hand. Nienna's dark eyes were as solemn as a young, hurt fauntling's were, but she nodded against Yavanna's curls, her heart that much lighter. They had worked together for this, sending dreams and thoughts and convictions into the world that they could no longer touch, and it was for these moments; when a scared little girl faced her fears, coming out braver and stronger for it. When those who were broken saw the face of change and believed they could be better again._

_"He has done so much for them," Nienna whispered, and as always her gaze was far away, focused on the child she had blessed. "Always, even when he walks away, he carries it for them. Always bearing their pain when they cannot."_

_Yavanna closed her eyes, that always shifted with the colors of the world, her smile knowing. "Yet he allows another into his heart, and he does not walk heavily with burden."_

_Nienna finally looked at her friend, and her dark eyes reflected deep, endless knowledge. "Your husband," she whispered with a tilt of her head._

_Yavanna's smile widened, and she turned her head to rest it against Nienna's shoulder, thick curls falling over both their backs. "He was stubborn about it, yes. But he sent his child that dream, after all, with my brother's help," she said, coy and sure._

_Nienna said nothing in reply, turning her head toward the pool again, and she closed her eyes and wept. " **Balaphadro.** " He hid it well, but she knew better than anyone in the world what her pain-bearer carried in his heart; so she wept for him, for the burden she had placed on him, and for the long journey he still had yet to walk to cleanse himself of the pain he carried._


	36. In meeting you

_Three weeks later:_

Esgaroth, the city upon the Long Lake, rose from a great lake of water as a beacon in the mists, shining beneath the morning sunlight that reflected off the canals between the roadways and buildings. The watchtowers stood tall and proud, guards facing every way, while great ships sailed to and from its massive harbor. The city stood upon the meeting of two great rivers, the River Running and the Greenwood Forest River, carrying goods between Dwarves, Men, and Elves of the eastern side of the world -- and soon, Hobbits as well.

A small boat sailed up the Forest River one morning, carrying passengers and trade from the Greenwood. One group in particular stood close together on the deck of this ship, staring over the misty lake as the sun rose in the east. Three Dwarves and four Hobbits watched as they sailed closer to the city, and while the younger Hobbits chattered excitedly, the fourth stood alone, knuckles white as they gripped the railing. He stared to the north where a lonely peak rose above the clouds, its jagged edges sharp in the morning light.

Beneath that mountain waited a Dwarf with blue eyes and a regal bearing. The Hobbit who who traveled to meet him reached up to his neck, touching a silver chain that held a ring and a shining key. 

When they reached the harbor, two of the Dwarves went to board another boat, leaving the others to explore Esgaroth at their leisure. After securing an inn, they set to exploring the vast city of riches and trade with delight, awed by the countless people roaming the streets, in all manners of dress: Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills, with stalls and shops full of jewelry, dwarven leatherwork, and dishes; men from the South, with pale hair and curling knots on their clothing, admiring dwarvish weapons; tall Elves with their serene gazes who bought simple clockwork toys; women with dark skin and hair swept up in tight scarves who bartered with grace and ingenuity; tanned Easterlings with their slanted eyes lined in kohl and long, glittering shawls over their shoulders, selling swaths of rich silk; bustling women with small hoards of children, doing their shopping at the same time that they easily handled their shrieking wards; girls and boys who ran about laughing, dwarrows and humans alike.

The four Hobbits who joined this madness riled up great interest in the people of Esgaroth, who had never seen Halflings this far north. There had been whispers, of course, of Halflings moving into the region, but this was the first time they were seen in the city. Their dwarven escort guarded them well, but whispers followed in their wake as they explored the marketplace, fascinated by the hundreds of different wares.

~

Baedra opened her stall with a cheerful grin and a short speech about how fine her silks were and what deals she had for the day. Business came and went, and after the morning crowd died away, Baedra settled onto her stool to review her records, glancing up every now and then whenever someone wandered close.

Near midday, after Baedra had snacked on one of the hot cross buns from down the street, her interest was caught by a peculiar group of people traipsing down the square. There was a soldier from Erebor, still recognizable though he looked well-traveled with his worn cloak and tattered scarf, guiding four charges alongside him. Her Beomer was a soldier, so she recognized the type.

His four charges were... different. They were not dwarrows, to be sure. All of them were small, even compared to the Dwarves that walked past them. They all had curly hair that flopped over their faces in a most unkempt manner, and none of them wore boots or shoes of any type. Their feet were very large, and when Baedra noticed the thick hair on their toes, she realized suddenly that they were Halflings. How strange, for Halflings to be on this side of the world! Her Beomer had told her about Halflings, but she had never realized how odd they really were.

One of the Halflings, who looked to be the oldest of the bunch, paused by her stall, and Baedra set down her book and put on her best smile. "What brings you this far east, stranger?" she asked, and the Halfling looked up at her in surprise.

His eyes were a lovely dark color that set off his blond curls nicely, but the green waistcoat he wore had obviously seen better days. She studied the cut of the coat surreptitiously, thinking that it must have been made for when the Halfling was very large, but he barely filled it now. For all that it was dirty with travel and fit him poorly, she could tell it was well-loved, with the careful stitches on the elbow and collar, and the minimal stains from food or drink. "Is it that obvious?" he asked with a small smile, and Baedra felt herself warming to his polite tone.

"We don't get Halflings around here! Are you here for trade?" she asked, curious.

The Halfling gave a little shrug, his gaze turning to the nearby mountain. "Something like that. My family and I are settling down in the Anduin Vale, and we've come to arrange for supplies."

Ah, she had heard those rumors. Nodding, Baedra gave a wide smile. "Like glass and wood? My cousin deals in those, and the very best of course! Are you going into Erebor proper?"

The Halfling's eyes widened, then warmed with amusement. "We are, once we finish our business here. Does your cousin have a shop in Buknad-dûm?" he asked curiously.

Baedra's opinion of this Halfling tripled, simply because he knew the name for one of Erebor's shopping districts, and he even pronounced it right. She nodded firmly and picked out a small square paper from a stack near her ledger and held it out to the Halfling. "He does indeed, and his name is Baedur. You take that card and find him, and you tell him Baedra sent you, and he'll give you a good deal." She smiled as the Halfling took the card and looked over it, waiting until he tucked it into his pocket.

"Now, Master Halfling, can I interest you in some of my fine cloth? I do tailoring, too, if you want to make an order," Baedra offered, and the Halfling's gaze turned to the deep blue brocades that hung to her right. His hand stroked down his left side over one of the stitched collars of his coat, and his cheeks turned a faint pink.

"I suppose my clothes are pretty worn, aren't they," he said softly, and Baedra's smile softened.

"Just a bit, Master Halfling."

The Halfling shifted, his hands sliding into his pocket and pressing against his sides, before he looked shyly at Baedra. "Can you copy the cut of this coat? It wasn't made for me, but maybe something in the same style? I... well, I'm going to meet someone soon, someone I want to impress, and it'd be nice to look like I haven't been on the road for three months," he said with a wry smile, and Baedra grinned.

"I can certainly do that, Master Halfling. Why don't you take a look around, pick a few things out, and then we can discuss the price?"

He nodded, then glanced over his shoulder, and Baedra saw his Dwarf friend and the other Halflings approaching. "Maybe a coat for Rory, too, and vests for Drogo and Otho," he murmured, and Baedra felt the satisfaction of a good deal. She would give him a fair price, because he was sweet and her cousin would hopefully get some business from him, too. She liked helping people, and if he was going to order clothes for his family, she would give him a good discount for it.

The Dwarf appeared at the Halfling's elbow and gave Baedra a charming wink, and the younger Halflings leaned in to admire her silks. Summarily they all picked out fabrics that would hold up well for the winter, and Baedra took the Halfling, who introduced himself as Bilbo Baggins, aside to measure him and make notes on his coat. The name was familiar, but she did not think more on it. When she put her hands on his waist with her measuring rope, he stiffened in surprise, but she clucked her tongue and patted his shoulder.

"Don't squirm, Mister Baggins," she chided, and Mister Baggins ducked his head with an embarrassed blush.

After she got all of their measurements, they settled down to discuss the price. Baedra noticed Mister Baggins' Dwarf escort hovering over the Halfling's shoulder, but Baedra was very fair in her pricing and made sure to point out the discount she was giving them, and the Dwarf leaned down to whisper in Mister Baggins' ear that it was a good deal. After they wrote out the receipt, Mister Baggins gave Baedra a bright smile and bowed to her.

"Thank you, Miss Baedra," he said simply, and Baedra had to fight a smile as she handed him her card with the receipt.

"Now, where should everything be delivered?" she asked briskly, and the Dwarf leaned over and gave her another wink while writing down an address for her.

"Send them to this inn, under care of Bofur. We won't be staying in Esgaroth long, though. Mister Baggins and his family are very special guests of Erebor, so we've got to be on our way," he said with a grin, and beside him, Mister Baggins blushed and jabbed the Dwarf in the side.

"I want to enter Erebor quietly! We're going to find an inn quickly and see your family first," Mister Baggins said with a frown, and Bofur snorted and waved him off.

"Do you really think he's going to let you stay at an inn, when he has the chance to spoil you with everything he has to offer? He said so in his letter, to _both_ of us, if I may remind you," Bofur said, and Mister Baggins seemed to grow pinker. "If you check into an inn, he'll just have the boys drag you and everything you own back out of it in the middle of the day, where everyone can see. And they would do it, too, little rascals," Bofur muttered. Then he turned a cheerful grin on Baedra, who only nodded when Bofur said, "Three days from now, you said? Good doing business with you!"

Then he took the sputtering Mister Baggins by the elbow and escorted him away, and his other three charges followed while chattering loudly about the hot cross buns they had bought while Mister Baggins and Baedra were doing business.

Baedra stared after them, amused by the tiny delegation and the sputtering of Mister Baggins. An odd company, to be sure, but she rather liked them, and she still believed it a good deal. As she turned to find her box of buttons to pick out something that would suit the Halflings, a thought struck her. Who was that Halfling, to be so special a guest of Erebor?

~

Three days they stayed in Esgaroth, more to look at the many wares and consider what to send home to the Vale than anything else, though Bilbo Baggins took advantage of the small vacation to calm his nerves.

He was going to meet Thorin soon. Every time he thought this, his breath grew shorter and he teetered on the edge of a panic attack. So he threw himself into exploring the possibilities of the marketplace, writing down prices and business names, taking cards and storing them in his journal, where he painstakingly wrote every bit of information he could gather on Esgaroth. He asked about bulk deals and made no promises, but he was straightforward, and all the while Bofur stayed at his side, giving invaluable advice on the quality of the products that Esgaroth offered.

On the morning that they would sail up the river to Erebor, several packages were delivered to Bofur at their inn. Rory, Otho, and Drogo appeared in the doorway to Bilbo and Bofur's room as he set the packages on the table, crowding around him eagerly.

"Where's mine?" Drogo asked eagerly, while Otho pushed at him and leaned over Bilbo's shoulder.

"Come on, Bilbo, open them up!" Rory complained, taking up Bilbo's other side while Drogo and Otho scuffled. Bilbo sighed in exasperation at the three of them, taking Rory's dagger when it was offered. Bofur was busy laughing on the other side of the room.

"Nosy, aren't you?" he asked lightly, taking his time to cut open the paper packages, while Rory huffed impatiently.

"Remember, mine's the blue one," Drogo interjected. Otho muttered under his breath, and Bilbo could not help his laugh.

When Bilbo had opened all the packages, three handsome vests were laid out on the table, fashioned in the same style that the Hobbits usually wore back in the Shire, along with silk handkerchiefs to be tucked into the pockets and matching scarves. Rory's green vest had small brass buttons, his scarf a soft brown, while Drogo's blue vest was decorated with silver buttons with little knotted designs on them, to match the greyish scarf and handkerchief. Otho had opted for purple, and his sleek copper buttons matched the orange handkerchief. The vests were very nice, and the three boys wasted no time in snatching up their new clothing and leaving the room to try them on.

"You've washed your shirts, haven't you?" Bilbo called after them, and he heard three voices chime, "Yes, Bilbo!" before their door slammed shut.

"Cheeky brats," Bofur said with a grin, while Bilbo sighed.

"I've no idea what do with them," he murmured, picking up the coat that Baedra's Fine Silks and Tailoring had sewn for him. It was made of burgundy corduroy with a pocket on the left side, with brass buttons fashioned in the shape of acorns. Bilbo loved it immediately, and he gave the worn green jacket that hung on the door a sad glance before pulling the new coat on and buttoning it, his thumb brushing over one of the acorns.

"Well?" Bilbo asked Bofur, turning around, and Bofur smiled at him, standing and walking over to pick up the new yellow scarf, looping it over Bilbo's shoulders and twisting it smartly.

"Miss Baedra did a great job," Bofur said, letting Bilbo take the ends of the scarf to tie them, tucking them beneath his brown vest. "Red's a good color on you. Not that the green one didn't do a good job, but..." He smiled when Bilbo shrugged sheepishly.

"It belonged to my father," he replied softly, and Bofur's dark eyes turned serious and knowing. They were interrupted by the door opening again, and Bilbo's three cousins hurried in, beaming as they posed.

"Very nice," Bilbo admired, going to straighten Drogo's scarf and show Otho how to fold his handkerchief properly. Rory had looped a heavy belt around his waist, with his little dagger fastened to the side of it, and Bilbo wondered when he had found the bracings. Likely when Bilbo hadn't been looking yesterday. He had given the boys some money and let them pick out what they wanted, and he still did not know what all they had bought. Drogo had been shifty the rest of the day, and Otho had changed the subject every time Bilbo had asked.

"There, all of you look very handsome. Are you finished packing?" Bilbo asked, his eyebrow twitching when Rory suddenly looked away and Drogo and Otho exchanged horrified glances. The three boys fled just as quickly as before, and Bilbo laughed, going to fold his old jacket and tuck it into his pack.

The company made it to their boat in time, though, after the rush of packing and a quick breakfast (the second for the Hobbits, who were easing back into their old meal schedule). As he had when they had sailed up the Forest River, Bilbo spent most of the trip on deck, watching the Lonely Mountain as it loomed closer in the distance.

Drogo came to his side as they approached the city of Dale, his gaze following the cast of the mountain's shadow against the rugged landscape. The city itself was beautiful with its washed walls of pale stone and tall bell towers, brightly colored flags flying high over its harbor. It bustled with livelihood, just as Esgaroth had, though they would only pass through Dale. There would be time later to explore the city; first, they were going to Erebor.

"It's all coming together for you, isn't it?" Drogo asked him quietly, and Bilbo looked over at him in surprise. Drogo watched him evenly, his pale eyes bright in the morning sun, and Bilbo felt himself smile.

"Do you think it strange of me, to be afraid of today? The last time I saw him was in a war camp," Bilbo said quietly, touching his scarf, which hid the glistening key Thorin had given him so many months ago. "He gave me so much, and all I can do is give him a little ring and wish him the best. I don't know if I can do this, Drogo." His gaze dropped to the railing, and he felt nauseous again, knowing that soon he would walk into Erebor and meet Thorin's gaze again --

Drogo knocked a hand upside Bilbo's head, and he started in surprise, muttering _ow_ while looking at Drogo in confusion. Drogo rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"You've written a letter to him every week for the past two months. Kíli said he was worried about you enough that he tried to run out Erebor's door. And I know you hardly slept after you were rescued from Bolg, anxious over him as you were. The two of you," Drogo sighed, and Bilbo stared at him in bewilderment. "It shouldn't matter what you give him or how you do it. Seems to me he'll be happy just to see you."

\-- _What can you do for me? You can come visit me, and you can let me aid your people. You can tell me the darkness that haunts you, so that I may pull it from your mind and give you peace. You can be my friend, so that I may be yours._

How had Drogo known? But then his cousin had always had a sharp mind, for all that he had been lazy when they were young. Bilbo smiled slowly, reaching up to clasp Drogo's shoulder and squeezing gently. "You know just what to say, cousin mine," he murmured, leaning their heads together. His gaze drifted back to the Lonely Mountain that stood beyond the city of Dale, and he felt a shiver of anticipation in his heart.

_Thorin._

~

_Curse you, sister mine!_ Thorin thought as he glowered across the table at Frerin, who watched him serenely. They were in a meeting with four of the generals who had returned with Thorin -- something Thorin had hoped to miss, considering today. Yet Dís had breezed into his office this morning with the summons and all but shoved him out the door, where he was waylaid by Frerin, who refused to let him out of his sight.

He knew what would happen today. Bilbo was set to arrive today, and his sister had scheduled a full course of meetings all day until the welcoming ceremony that afternoon. Thorin was not fooled; he knew that this was a distraction, so that Dís could meet Bilbo herself without Thorin to get in the way.

Frerin had joined her unholy crusade to drive Thorin to insanity, and Thorin was going to destroy both of them. After his meetings were over, and after he finally saw his friend again.

He was anxious, though, nervous in a way he had not felt in many a decade. He had tirelessly worked to finish every possible preparation to welcome Bilbo, yet he felt unprepared to see the hero of his war march again. Bilbo, who had been tiny and skeletal and shaking when Thorin had last seen him; who had flinched at being hugged yet had shown such bravery in the face of his own death; whose great deeds had not matched his small figure, yet his words and thoughts and ideas were greater than the scope of Thorin's entire life.

How could he measure against Bilbo Baggins? Thorin had lived a long life. He had done well by his family and forefathers. He had not fallen to gold madness, nor had he lost his life to his enemy. His kingdom prospered and his family was safe by his hands -- yet when he thought of what Bilbo had suffered and of the hints in his letters to his life at Azog's feet, Thorin could not think of anything he had ever achieved that could compare to what Bilbo had done to protect his people.

He looked forward to meeting Bilbo again, but he worried. He was obsessed and he knew it; but Bilbo had become important to him in ways he could not understand. To see Bilbo again, to know that he was safe and well -- it was all Thorin wanted.

_Bilbo._

~

The front gate of Erebor rose above the long road, with heavyset dwarven statues guarding either side of its ramparts, mightier and more beautiful than the gates that stood on either side of the Misty Mountains. Bilbo stared up at the entrance in awe, his mouth open as he traversed the long bridge behind Bofur. His key with the dwarven ring sat openly on his chest; his second ring stayed tucked into a pocket on the inside of one of his vests, secreted away from prying eyes.

Thorin had told him of Erebor before, and Bofur had spoken at length of its beauty, but their descriptions had not prepared Bilbo for the magnificence of this mountain. The Lonely Mountain itself towered over the land, blocking out the blue sky that had followed them all morning and into the afternoon, and Bilbo's breath caught in his throat as they approached the great gate.

A beautiful dwarrowdam was standing at the gate with Kíli and another Dwarf in her likeness, with fair hair like Frerin, at her side. She had a delicate beard carefully braided along her chin, and her long, dark hair was swept into a silver circlet and bunched at the back of her head, spilling down her back in ringlets. Her dress was a deep violet color, and her regal expression was so like Thorin's that Bilbo knew her immediately. She stood to the side, watching the foot traffic with interest, until her dark gaze landed on Bilbo in the crowd. She watched him curiously, and he met her eyes and saw Thorin's stern brow and strong nose.

There were many guards that stood at attention behind the royal family, but they did nothing to stop Bilbo as he walked past Bofur to Princess Dís, bowing lowly.

"Well met, Princess Regent Dís of Erebor," Bilbo said as he straightened, and Dís' stern gaze warmed with a smile. 

"Well met, _Khuzdibâh_ Bilbo Baggins. You know my son Kíli, and this is my elder son, Fíli," Dís said, her deep voice echoing across the gateway and causing several Dwarves to turn around in interest. She bowed to him in return, then turned and walked into Erebor, while behind them, Kíli introduced Fíli to Bilbo's cousins. Two attendants took their luggage, and Bilbo followed her into Erebor. 

Bofur walked behind them, cheerful as Dís lead the small family to an empty, guarded walkway that looked over the great city. "Welcome to Erebor," she said to him, stopping at the edge, and Bilbo's mouth fell open again in awe as he looked over the city he had dreamed of for half a year. He was stunned to see so many Dwarves in one place. Not even Thorin's camp had held so many Dwarves.

The city delved deep into the mountain, with long roads and grand staircases that shone in the lamplight, bustling with hundreds of Dwarves: families, workers, and shoppers as they made their way through the city. Great blue flags with seven twinkling stars hung from every lamppost, and the maze of roadways and halls stretched far beyond what Bilbo could see, into districts and neighborhoods that he could only hope he might one day explore. Massive, beautiful, and glorious beyond words; it was the city of Erebor, the city of his dreams.

"It's beautiful," Bilbo whispered, and Dís smiled, escorting him down the walkway, which lead to a grand palace in the center of the city. Bilbo felt at ease with her; they had spoken several times already through their correspondence, and she was like Frerin and Kíli in her manners. He felt his anxiety lessening as they walked, though he did wonder where Thorin was. Dís kept up a steady commentary about the city, pointing out the entrances to the different shopping quarters and various landmarks, that Bilbo took note to ask Thorin about later.

The palace was grand in scale, of glittering stone and reflective glass in ancient designs that Bilbo recognized from Khazad-dûm, sharp and dwarvish and achingly beautiful. On either side of the great courtyard burned two massive bowls of fire, lighting the palace windows and the courtyard. Dwarves hurried to and fro, wearing fine robes and carrying sheaths of paper.

When they entered the courtyard, Bilbo's attention was torn from Dís' explanation of the history of the nearby statues by movement on one of the balconies. There was a tall Dwarf there, surrounded by people in official-looking robes, and the familiar shape of his profile made Bilbo stop walking.

His breath caught in his throat then, when the Dwarf turned and their gazes met across the courtyard.

"Thorin," Bilbo whispered, staring up into blue, blue eyes. Thorin had stopped walking as well, and he seemed oblivious to his entourage calling to him, just as Bilbo was oblivious to his cousins behind him and the guards who were watching, even to Dís who had stopped with him and followed his gaze.

"Ah, he must be out of his meeting then," Dís said offhandedly, but Bilbo hardly heard her. He could not stop staring at Thorin, who stared back at him, just as stunned as he was.

After a long moment, Bilbo smiled, slow and happy. Thorin looked good; he did not seem tired or stressed as he had all those months ago, and the blue of his clothes suited him, as did the crown on his dark hair. He had dreamed of that face for a long time, and he thought of all the things he wanted to say to Thorin, of all the words they had exchanged already. Something burned in his chest, and he felt as if he could simply step forward and Thorin would be there to meet him. He saw Thorin's mouth soften in a smile, and how he wished to call out; but they were too far apart.

Bilbo heard his name then, and he turned to see his cousins watching him with raised eyebrows, while beside him, Dís looked very curious. Bilbo felt his entire face flush at the attention, and when he looked back to the balcony, Thorin was gone. Bilbo breathed out shakily and gave Dís a small smile.

"My apologies, Princess Dís," he started, but Dís merely swept forward again, guiding Bilbo along.

"He could not meet you himself, unfortunately, due to some meetings that could not be moved. But you will see him at the ceremony today," Dís told him, and Bilbo faltered in confusion.

"Ceremony?" he queried, and Dís shot him a half-exasperated glance that reminded him very much of Thorin.

"The welcoming ceremony where you will give my father's ring to my brother. Did Bofur not tell you about it?" Dís asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked over at Bofur, who suddenly felt the need to join Fíli and Kíli's enthusiastic conversation with Bilbo's cousins.

"No," Bilbo said slowly, frowning at Bofur, "he did not."

They entered the palace together, and Bilbo and his family were lead deep into the palace, to a great hallway with heavily decorated doors that were left open, light spilling onto the stone floor.

"Rory, you're staying here!" Kíli said excitedly, nudging Rory to one of the rooms despite his immediate protest, and Fíli smoothly showed Drogo and Otho to two rooms across the hall. The last room, with the most ornate door, was where Dís led Bilbo, and she stopped just outside and smiled at him, sweeping her arm toward the room.

"My brother had this room prepared for you," Dís said, and Bilbo gave her a vaguely confused look before entering the room.

It was not one room, but three. The massive central room held a great couch and table, along with a desk and a set of shelves in the wall, stocked with books and writing instruments. The walls were covered in long, intricate tapestries, and Bilbo was surprised to see a large window at the other end of the room. 

Another door was left open, and through it Bilbo could see a bedroom with a large bed that could have held half a dozen Hobbits. His pack sat there, with his clothes already hanging in a great wooden wardrobe that arched up toward the ceiling. He ignored that for now, instead going to the second door, which to his delight opened into a small, underground garden. 

There was a faintly glowing pond in the center, with a small waterfall trickling into its pool from the wall. There was a small wooden bench, and the plants that were carefully tended there held faint, colorful glows in their leaves and flowers, the likes of which Bilbo had never seen before. Wooden fences lined the edge of the garden, and Bilbo realized that it looked over part of the city, far enough away that he could not hear the din, but close enough to share the light.

This was not a garden for a Dwarf. This was a garden meant for a Hobbit, and Bilbo's chest felt tight again, to realize that Thorin had prepared this for _him_.

He backed away, entering the room again and turning around, awed and more than a little unnerved by the largeness of it. He could only guess that there was a washroom hiding within the bedroom as well, and he felt overwhelmed for a moment, enough that he had to sit down on the couch.

"That giant clot," Bilbo whispered. "This is too much! I told him not to go to any trouble." He leaned forward and hung his head, his curls hiding his face, and despite the knowledge that Thorin had done exactly as he had promised --

_Your stay in Erebor will be extravagant. I have already begun preparations. You're not to stay in an inn, Bilbo Baggins, not when I have an entire mountain at my disposal to welcome you._

\-- he felt a smile spreading over his face, even as his face burned with embarrassment.

He heard a heavy thump, and he looked up to see Dís setting a gilded box of silver on the table before him. He watched her curiously as she pressed into two notches on either side of the box, causing it to click and unlock. When she opened it, there was black velvet folded over a cushion within, with a slot small enough to fit a ring.

"The ceremony is simple enough," Dís told him, gesturing to the box. "You will approach Thorin's throne with that box and present it to him, and he will introduce you to Erebor and welcome you. I imagine he has some pretty words for the occasion, but you need not say anything if you do not wish, except to present the ring to him. Will that be a problem? I can have someone write you a speech," she said, peering at him with a cool gaze, but her lips twitched slightly and Bilbo huffed a small sigh.

"I have a few ideas. When will the ceremony start?" he asked, not daring to think of what to say for now. He might actually have a panic attack, and where would that leave them?

Dís pulled a small pocket watch from some part of her dress, pressing it open and humming thoughtfully. "In two hours, my sons will escort you to the throne room. Rest for a while. There will be refreshments sent to you shortly. After the ceremony, there are no plans in the schedule but the feast this evening, though perhaps my brother has something in mind." 

Bilbo stood and smiled at Dís, bowing again, and she watched him with dark gleaming eyes, the same gaze that Kíli wore from time to time. "Thank you, Princess Dís. I look forward to doing well by your people," he stated, and she rewarded him with a small smile.

"You may call me Dís in private, if I may call you Bilbo," Dís said to him, and Bilbo smiled in quiet delight. Then Dís swept from the room, and Bilbo sank back onto the couch, feeling his knees shaking slightly. A moment later, Bofur peered around the edge of the door.

"Nice," he whistled when he looked at the room. "Bilbo, I'm going to head home, but I'll be at the ceremony later. You alright?" His mottled green gaze fixed on Bilbo's, then dropped to his hands, which were gripping his knees.

Bilbo gave him a weak smile. "Just nerves. Are the boys alright?"

Bofur disappeared briefly, then came back looking sheepish. "Er, looks like Fíli and Kíli already nabbed them. But they'll return your cousins in good shape! Promise," he said with a small grin. Bilbo laughed, startled and unsurprised at the same time.

"You're still going to give me a tour, right?" he asked, and Bofur nodded.

"And take you to see my family, like I promised. Bifur'll be so pleased to see you! He'll be at the ceremony, too," Bofur said, beaming, then paused at the look on Bilbo's face.

"So," Bilbo drawled, raising his eyebrows, "when were you going to tell me about that?"

"Er," Bofur stuttered, "about that --"

"Because I distinctly remember you saying there was no rush at all, don't you worry, Bilbo, how about we stay in Esgaroth for a while? Three days should do it," Bilbo mimicked, and he watched Bofur like a hawk as he fumbled for a response.

"That is -- they just had a few things to finish -- wow, look at the time, I have to run. I'll see you later!" finished the Dwarf hurriedly, winking at Bilbo and quickly leaving the room.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. He could only imagine the reasoning behind Bofur's decision, and he was quite sure he did not want to know. Bofur was protective of him on a good day, and this was one of the most important days of his life. Perhaps, even, Bofur had forgotten, in the rush of returning to his home after eight years. Bilbo did not blame him, though he might give his friend an earful later.

Bilbo turned his gaze back to the window, admiring the lights of the city below. Slowly, he slid sideways until he was lying against the plush cushions of the couch, shaky with anxiety, but so very relieved. He was here; he would see Thorin soon. He would finally repay him for all that he had done.

Oh, but was he ready? He was still weak-kneed at the thought of meeting Thorin again, but as he had told Frerin -- when better to come? To give Thorin his long-lost heirloom that had belonged to his father, who had died in such a horrific way -- it was only one small thing Bilbo could do, but he was happy to do it and he looked forward to seeing Thorin again.

 _There must be something else I can do for him,_ he thought, and he sat alone for a long time.

~

When Fíli and Kíli came to Bilbo's door, it was with wild grins that Bilbo eyed suspiciously, particularly when Rory, Otho, and Drogo exchanged knowing looks. He did not want to know, so he merely advised the boys to behave and followed the two young princes through the palace, his cousins trailing behind obediently. With him he carried the gilded box, which contained Thráin's ring. Earlier he had been visited by the palace's official jewelers, who had taken a look at the ring, cleaning it and setting it in the box. The blue jewel nestled in the knot of gold shone every time Bilbo looked at it.

Bilbo was led to a small room that Fíli, who was much more level-headed than his younger brother, explained was a waiting room for dignitaries during ceremonies such as these. His cousins were led further down the hall, Kíli gesturing expressively, and each of his cousins looked over his shoulder at Bilbo before following the two princes away.

Bilbo was left alone, with only a ring and no idea what would happen next.

For a short time, he sat on the couch and stared down at the box, pressing the notches and flicking the lid up repeatedly until he could open it with his eyes closed. The ring inside glittered each time he glimpsed the blue jewel. Bilbo thought of the long years he had kept this ring hidden from Azog, and the many months now he had worn it on his neck. Had he known then that how important it would be?

But no. He had picked up the ring because it looked interesting and he liked the color of it. Azog had never cared to organize his treasure hoard, and so many times Bilbo had snuck into that room to steal what belonged to Hobbits and Dwarves and other races. Had the ring called to him then? Or was it simply luck?

As lucky as he had been to find his own ring?

Bilbo would never know. He had been bewildered and stunned to know that the ring had belonged to Thorin's father, and as Frerin had described its worth, weeks ago, Bilbo had thought first: _I can repay him now._ He knew that Thorin, above all else, valued his family and history, and this ring had been stolen from him; it was only right that Bilbo, who had taken it on a whim, returned it to its rightful owner. He and Thorin would match now, in a way; two rings from Azog's trove, one for a Dwarf, one for a Hobbit.

He thought suddenly of the first time he had put Thorin's ring on, how he had dreamed of Khuzdul and caverns and stone for a week. Would Thorin see the same dreams? Perhaps a Dwarf would not dream such things, for they lived in that world already. Still, Bilbo would have to warn Thorin about it.

Jittery with nerves, he stood paced to the end of the room, then back to the couch, wringing his hands and faltering between touching the key and picking up the box again before setting it down capriciously. He had not felt this anxious in years! He was not ready to meet Thorin again. It was all too sudden. He should go now; leave the ring behind, as it belonged to Thorin rightly, and flee the mountain back to his Vale, and maybe in another five years he could bear to meet Thorin's gaze without going irrationally weak in the knees.

How could he have let himself become so obsessed? Hadn't he wanted, so keenly, not to become so dependent on anyone else ever again? But just that look between them earlier was enough to leave Bilbo shaking with the need to speak with Thorin, to hear his voice again, and they hardly even knew each other. When had he become so reliant? When had Thorin become so important to him? Was he trying to fill the space Azog had left with Thorin? He had talked himself out of that before. Why, then, did he so _need_ Thorin?

Thorin did not deserve to meet this shaking, nervous mess of a Hobbit. He deserved someone strong and capable. Bilbo would leave him the ring and let his family take care of him; he would not intrude on Thorin's life anymore. Bilbo would leave immediately; he could sneak away with his special ring, and no one would be the wiser. His fingers were already sliding into his jacket, brushing against the cool metal inside --

The door opened then, and Bilbo heard, "Your Majesty, please wait --" along with heavy footsteps.

"I just need to sit for a minute," Thorin muttered to the attendant outside, shutting the door and turning around with a deep sigh. Bilbo stood frozen at the other end of the room, knowing that voice, knowing that if he turned around, then he would be face to face with Thorin Oakenshield again.

Well. His mother had not raised a coward, for all that Bilbo was afraid. He turned around, as Thorin opened his eyes and looked up, and their gazes caught.

The roar in his mind stumbled into a serene silence, as he caught the surprise in Thorin's expression, swiftly followed by wonder and, if he dared to hope, delight. "Bilbo," Thorin murmured, and Bilbo felt his nerves melt away. Surety settled on his shoulders, and he knew then that this was right, that his anxiety was only a front to the worry that Thorin would not want to see him again. By the smile on Thorin's face, he knew that it was a silly thought.

Thorin was not someone who sought to possess or control him. Thorin was someone whom Bilbo admired very much, for the gifts Thorin had given him and the belief that Thorin held in him, that Bilbo was worthwhile and important. Thorin was someone who had given Bilbo everything while expecting nothing in return, and Bilbo knew that his fears were foolish. He did not cling to Thorin, nor was he dependent on his moods and actions. Instead, they had fostered something far greater than anything Bilbo had ever shared with Azog: friendship.

"I have never been gladder to see you, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo said, a small smile spreading over his lips. Thorin blinked at the familiar words, his gaze sharpening, then softening with memory.

Without thinking they moved across the room to each other, meeting in the middle and standing close. Bilbo set the gilded box on a table and let his gaze drink in the sight of Thorin in royal blues, with a cloak of black fur and rich gems in his hair and belt. He had a gold crown on his head that held a squarish white gem that actually glowed, and Bilbo looked up at the color of it in wonder. Thorin looked every inch the king of his people, dark hair gleaming as his blue, blue eyes roamed over Bilbo's face. Bilbo had dreamed of this face; had wanted to see it again for months, not even a year, and here they were.

He felt shy and brave all at once as he met Thorin's eyes again. Thorin's key shone as it rested on his chest, and he saw Thorin's gaze drop to it, the blue of his eyes darkening as he saw it resting against Bilbo's scarf. He looked like a proper Hobbit now, not dressed up in rags and dirt, with his red waistcoat and its acorn buttons, with Sting on his hip and his curls neatly combed. He was not the slave that Thorin had met all those months ago in Azog's chambers; he was Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire and the Vale, and he was here to repay Thorin for everything that he had done for him.

He could not find the words. He had too much to say to Thorin, yet nothing came out. He wanted to thank him; to tell him about the Vale; to tell him about Erebor; to ask him so many questions; to tell him so many things. The words slipped from his mind, fleeting as he faltered. For a moment he was that thin, wrecked creature again, desperate and shamed. Thorin was still staring at him, blue eyes piercing as they had ever been.

"You look good," Thorin said suddenly, and Bilbo caught sight of a faint flush rising in his cheeks. He could not help staring. "The color suits you. Much like those strawberry tarts," Thorin added teasingly, and just like that, the tension melted away.

They had written to each other for weeks. How had Bilbo been afraid of this? He laughed, joyous to be here finally, and he saw Thorin's mien soften. "I have the recipe now. There's no stopping me from making them all summer. Perhaps I should share," he replied, his eyes crinkling as Thorin huffed a faint breath through his nose.

"Keep your tarts. I know better than to get between a Hobbit and his sweets," Thorin said with a serious expression, but Bilbo saw the twinkle in his gaze and felt fond at the same time that something warm burned in his chest. He saw Thorin's hands move, and he felt Thorin's intention in the same movement. Instead of fearing, instead of flinching away, he was already stepping forward when Thorin's hands came up around his back. Then Thorin was embracing him, and Bilbo breathed in the scents of cloves and leather.

"You kept your promise," Thorin murmured into his hair. "You've no idea how grateful I am."

It was too easy to hug Thorin back, tightly as if he would disappear from his arms. He was comfortable here; more than comfortable, he felt safe as he hardly ever did with anyone else. Even when Thorin let him go, moments later, Bilbo still felt as if he could climb the entire world with the joy that threatened to burst from his chest. This felt _right_.

He still could not help the flush that rose to his face, but it seemed Thorin was in a similar state, if his avoidance of Bilbo's gaze was any indication. Bilbo went back to the couch to sit down, taking the gilded box along the way, and after a moment, Thorin followed him, sinking into the cushion with a long sigh. Bilbo echoed his sigh as he set the box on his lap, and he saw Thorin clasping his knees tightly before turning to him. Those blue eyes fell to the box, deepening in color.

"So that is it, then," Thorin murmured, and Bilbo bobbed his head once, nervous as he looked down at the intricate metalwork that decorated the box.

"I'm sorry I didn't give to you before," he blurted out, and Thorin blinked at him. "Er, that is -- I hadn't known what it was, but I had thought about gifting it to you when you gave me the key. I should have then, really, but it slipped from my mind and I'd thought it was just an old ring anyway --"

"Peace, Bilbo. That you have brought it to me like this is fantastic enough. My father's ring," Thorin trailed off, reaching out to touch the box, his fingers brushing Bilbo's wrist. "We had thought it lost. I think it is fitting that you of all people return it to my kingdom." He looked up then and met Bilbo's gaze, a small smile growing on his lips. "It brought you back to me, after all."

"A-ah, yes." Why did Thorin manage to fluster him so easily? "You should see it!" he said quickly. Then he averted his gaze and began to open the box, but Thorin's fingers landed on his hand, stopping him. Something shifted in Thorin's expression, as if he was apprehensive of the box in Bilbo's lap, but the emotion was too fleeting to draw more attention.

"I will see it during the ceremony. There is no hurry. We can sit and talk for a moment," Thorin said to him, and his gaze was keen as he watched Bilbo. "I am sorry for not seeing you before now. Are your rooms to your liking? How do you like Erebor?"

Bilbo remembered his awe from walking into the rooms Thorin had prepared for him, and he gave Thorin a frown. "The rooms are too large! You needn't spoil me like that! I could have stayed in an inn. You didn't have to go to the trouble of it," he told Thorin decisively, huffing.

Thorin frowned back at him. "You are my personal guest, and _khuzdibâh_ to my people besides. Why should I not treat you with the honor you deserve?"

Well, when Thorin said it like that. "You shouldn't have gone to all the trouble," Bilbo said again. "But I do like them, even if they are too much. The garden outside is wondrous! I did not know plants could glow like that." He turned more toward Thorin, and the frown on Thorin's face eased as his gaze warmed. "And Erebor is lovely. You were right, for once."

"Oh?" Thorin murmured, and his broad shoulders relaxed at Bilbo's admission. The weight of the Dwarf's fingers on Bilbo's hand was forgotten, though he still felt the warmth. "What am I right about now?"

Bilbo raised his eyebrows, pleased and surprised at once, that Thorin took to his teasing in person much better than he did in his letters. "Only about the one thing, mind. I do like it here, very much. Bofur has offered to give me a tour, but perhaps if you have time, you would like to walk with us?" he asked shyly, and Thorin's mouth twisted before he opened it to respond.

He was interrupted, though, by the door opening, and Dís herself walked into the room, resplendent as she always was, now wearing a silvery crown with a small, faintly shining gem in its center, matching Thorin's crown. "Oh," she said when she saw the two of them sitting together, before narrowing her eyes. "Both of you are hiding here. Good. Get up, we have a ceremony to commence," she commanded, and Bilbo was treated to the sight of Thorin narrowing his eyes at his sister in defiance.

"It is not due to start for another --"

" _Thorin Oakenshield,_ you have a duty to your people and to _Khuzdibâh_ Baggins today, and I'll not have you shirk it just to spend a few minutes chatting! You have the rest of the day to do whatever you like," Dís ordered. "Now get up and go sit on your throne."

Bilbo bit his lip when he heard Thorin muttering mutinously, but in the end Thorin stood and walked to the door, giving Dís another glare before looking back at Bilbo. His blue gaze softened, and Bilbo gazed back at him, struck by the familiarity of it. "After the ceremony, then," Thorin promised, and then he was gone. Bilbo let out a deep sigh, then sucked it in quickly when Dís turned her narrowed gaze on him.

"This way, Bilbo," she said serenely after a beat, and Bilbo followed her, cowed. He was starting to realize just how fiercesome she was. Thorin was right to be wary of her.

She left him alone at the edge of a great doorway, disappearing behind a curtain. He peeked out past the doorway, looking into the throne room, and the sight of the grand, arching room took his breath away. He saw Thorin sitting on a tall stone throne, looking disgruntled, and to his sides stood his family, each wearing a small crown with those shining gems. Bofur, Bilbo's cousins, and many other Dwarves, including Bifur, Dwalin, Óin, and Glóin, stood nearby, and Bilbo beamed at them when he saw them. Bifur waved back, and Óin eyed him in a promising manner that Bilbo knew would end in another embarrassing visit with the healer, but he was happy to see them anyway.

Bilbo's gaze swept over the sprawling architecture, stunned, and then his gaze was caught by blue eyes. Thorin's lips twitched, and Bilbo ducked out of sight again, steeling his nerves and breathing in deeply.

_I can do this._

When Bilbo heard his name, he straightened his back and looked ahead, holding the box to his chest and walking into the throne room, down a long stone path. The stone was smooth beneath his feet, his footsteps nearly silent in the great room. The Dwarves assembled watched him curiously, but Bilbo's gaze had landed on Thorin again, and he could not look away.

When he reached the first step that led up to Thorin's throne, Bilbo stopped and bowed. His chest shook with the anxiety of speaking in front of a hundred Dwarves, but Bilbo crushed his apprehension away.

"King Thorin II of Erebor," he said into the silence, looking up again to meet Thorin's blue, blue gaze. Above those eyes that had always haunted him shone the small white jewel of Thorin's crown, twinkling as Thorin tilted his head at his full name. "We meet again, not on a battlefield but in your mighty kingdom. I bring you good tidings and an offer of alliance between my people and yours. With your victory in Khazad-dûm, you gave freedom back to my people, and you will always have our gratitude and friendship for what you and the seven clans did for us.

"I also present to you this ring, which once belonged to your father, King Thráin II. It was recovered from the hold of Azog the Defiler, and I return it now to its rightful owner," Bilbo said, and he pressed onto the two notches on either side of the box, then opened it and held it aloft for Thorin.

Thorin tore his gaze from Bilbo's face, looking into the box, and whatever he thought when he saw the ring, he did not reveal it. Instead he stood and descended from the throne, reaching out to take the ring from the box and holding it up to admire it. Then he slid it onto his hand and looked back at Bilbo, while another Dwarf retrieved the box from between them.

" _Khuzdibâh_ Bilbo Baggins," Thorin intoned, reaching up to touch the key on Bilbo's chest, then holding out his hands, and Bilbo blinked up at him, bewildered, but he let Thorin take his hands willingly. "Be welcome in my halls and kingdom, as thanks for destroying the menace that hunted my family. Be welcome as my friend and ally, ambassador from the Vale. Erebor, I present to you, Bilbo Baggins of the Vale!" Then he smiled at Bilbo, and Bilbo could not help but smile back.

When Thorin nudged him to turn, Bilbo did so smoothly, though his face flushed as he saw the Dwarves in the room clapping for him. Then he realized that beyond the main floor were several balconies and walkways where hundreds more Dwarves stood, cheering and clapping for him -- for Bilbo Baggins, hero of Thorin Oakenshield's war.

The last time he had faced such attention, he had cowered away, ashamed of himself. Now he stood with pride, no longer a slave, no longer a pet to an Orc deep in the mountains, finally an equal to Thorin himself. For the first time in years, Bilbo felt sure of himself, and as he looked to his side to Thorin, he felt glad again, to have met this Dwarf at the worst point in his life.

He had kept his promise, and still more he wished to do for Thorin, as the Dwarf continued to do for him. Yet that was their promise of friendship -- and Bilbo could not hope for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a simple rendition of the crowns worn by Thorin and his family, drawn by me, you can [visit my tumblr](http://amberstarfight.tumblr.com/post/90915159414/the-crowns-of-the-royal-family-of-erebor)!


	37. Revelry and realizations

Bilbo and Thorin left the throne room separately, and they each stole moments away from the crowds.

What Thorin did not see was Bilbo's short, heaving breaths and trembling hands covering his face, panic and disbelief and shock spinning around beneath the blood rushing in his ears, leaving him light-headed and far too uncertain of what might come next in the company of the king.

What Bilbo did not see was Thorin leaning heavily against the wall, covering his face and feeling faint at meeting those eyes which saw right through him as they always had, stunned and anxious and afraid of the force behind his resolve, while wondering how just one glance from Bilbo was enough to leave him shaking.

Yet when people located them again, the panic had been shuttered away. 

Thorin led Bilbo to a great room filled with tables and cheering Dwarves, where a feast was held. There, Bilbo was introduced to many Dwarves who smiled and bowed to him, nobles and officials and guild masters, but there were also soldiers. He recognized the soldiers, saw familiarity in some faces, and wondered if these were family of fallen Dwarves from the war.

Bilbo did not get too far into his greetings before Bifur appeared before him, followed by Bofur and a copper-skinned Dwarf with deep brown hair that was streaked white like Bifur's beard.

"Bilbo!" Bifur greeted cheerful, gripping Bilbo's shoulder and suddenly knocking their heads together. Bilbo had half-expected this and did not react any worse than to sway from the sudden headache, but he grinned when Bofur fretted immediately, while Thorin twitched in shock. The surrounding Dwarves chuckled, though, as Bifur stepped back and grinned, exuberant. "Clever lad, bringing our Bofur back. Thought he was mad for stayin' out there, but he was doin' it for a good reason."

Bilbo returned his smile, clasping Bifur's arm. "I never thanked you for all that you did for me then, Bifur. You have my deepest gratitude." He glanced beyond Bofur, but Thorin had disappeared, to Bilbo's disappointment.

"Nonsense, Bilbo," Bifur beamed, clearly pleased, "it's what friends do. Let me introduce you to my Boro! Told him all about you!"

The dwarrow beside Bifur stepped forward, smiling. He was less exuberant than Bifur and Bofur, and he bowed serenely. "Well met, Bilbo Baggins. I am Boro, One of my One Bifur."

Bilbo smiled, shy to meet someone who was, in the manner of men preferring men, like him, and interested in someone who had found their One. It was different than Bifur saying he had a husband; meeting that husband, and seeing no judgment in the expressions of the surrounding Dwarves, made Bilbo feel more welcome. Hesitantly, he glanced at his cousins, but even Otho and Drogo did not seem to care. They greeted Bifur energetically, as Bofur proudly introduced each of them to the group.

"It's very nice to meet you, Boro," Bilbo said, and he would have drawn Boro into conversation, had Dís not appeared at his elbow and gently guided him away.

"Come, Bilbo, we have a table for you and your family. Hello, Boro," she said warmly, nodding to Bifur, and instead of bowing as Dwarves usually did around the Princess, Boro only smiled and nodded.

"We're going to take Bofur now. Nice to see you, Highness," Bifur said cheerfully, grabbing Bofur and dragging him off, while Boro and some other Dwarves followed at a more sedate pace. Bilbo looked over at Dís in bemusement, as she led him through the crowd. Bilbo's cousins followed, and the crowd parted easily for them, until they came to a table where Thorin himself stood stiffly at the head of the table, along with Frerin, Fíli, Kíli, and another space for Dís. On the opposite side of the table were four places, and Bilbo realized that the space to Thorin's left was meant for him.

"Oh," he said, his face turning warm from the attention, but he dutifully parted ways with Dís and went to stand beside Thorin, peering up at him and meeting his gaze. Thorin, solemn and silent, broke his stern visage to smile faintly at Bilbo, and Bilbo returned it, nervous as he looked over at the large room, filled with Dwarves who had hushed, finding places at tables with ease.

"My people," Thorin intoned into the silence, "let us rejoice the brave deeds of our honored guest and his kin. To Bilbo Baggins." He lifted his goblet, and with the same motion, the entire room echoed,

"To Bilbo Baggins."

A shiver ran down Bilbo's spine. In the faces of those who toasted him, he saw respect, bemusement, interest, and excitement; yet he also saw dark glances cast his way. Before he could reflect on that, the room let out a great roar, and Thorin sat down again as the great platters on the table were lifted.

"Help yourselves," Fíli told Bilbo's cousins, grinning at them, and Bilbo sighed to himself when the three boys wasted no time in filling their plates. Clearly he had to include a reminder lesson about manners. He was gratified to see that Kíli, youngest prince of the nation, was hardly any better, but Fíli at least was tidy as he ate. Dís was eyeing Kíli with a small frown.

"For all that I ate too much of it, the last I enjoyed your fares, I have missed Dwarvish cooking," Bilbo said, glancing up at Thorin. "Please give my compliments to your chefs."

Thorin smiled at that. "Óin did complain about Bofur and Bifur sneaking you into the mess halls so frequently. But then, you needed it," Thorin finished quietly, his voice dropping as he looked down the table at their families.

With a small start, Bilbo realized that of the people at the table, only Thorin knew anything of Bilbo's recovery at camp. No one else had taken part in the war. He appreciated Thorin's quiet voice, looking up to see Frerin watching him with interest. For a moment, Bilbo worried that Frerin would ask Thorin what he meant; on their three week journey together, Frerin had asked Bilbo many questions about the battle from his perspective, and little on his time as a slave. Bilbo had been able to tell, though, that Frerin was deeply curious about his time in Azog's halls.

Frerin did not ask about the war, though. "Tell us, Bilbo, what are your plans for the Vale? You needn't keep all the details between you and our sister," he offered, and Bilbo gladly began to explain the work he had completed so far through letters with Dís.

When Bilbo and his family had left the Vale, the first smial had been finished, small and rough as it was, on the south side of the valley. Beorn had put up several temporary shelters with the help of his animal friends, and together with Bilbo and the boys, they had cleared a large plot to start planting the seeds that the Elves had gifted. Through his letters with Dís, Bilbo had successfully ordered materials like wood and stone, and he had hired a small blacksmithing company to travel to the Vale to create parts they needed for building. He had even hired Dwarves who had left to the Vale already to work beside Beorn and his kin.

Bilbo's plan was to remain in Erebor for as long as was needed and to manage their supplies and money through letters from the Vale. He had left instructions with Beorn to give to his cousins and to the farmers when they arrived, and he hoped that the small exchange system would succeed. Whatever the Hobbits needed, he could work on their behalf in Erebor to purchase, with the gold from Azog's hoard.

Every time Bilbo thought about using Azog's gold, he felt a little thrill of glee. Even in death he was defying Azog, and it was _wonderful_.

Dís had made the suggestion first, but Bilbo had quickly warmed to the idea. When he was not working for his kin, Bilbo hoped to study history and culture of the region, to prepare himself better for working with the different nations of the West. He could use the time to teach Rory, Drogo, and Otho as well; he had begun lessons with them on their travels through Mirkwood, but it was hard to teach three energetic young Hobbits when they were distracted by adventure.

"I am unsurprised by my sister's cleverness. That she convinced you to come here so easily..." Frerin trailed off, casting a glance at Dís who raised an eyebrow at him. 

"So long as you have need to stay, Bilbo Baggins," Dís said smoothly, "you are welcome in our kingdom. Will you be joining Kíli in his lessons, young Rorimac?"

Rory startled from his meal, blinking owlishly at Dís. "I, er, hadn't thought about it? What kind of lessons?"

"Kíli rises with the forge fires to study with Commander Nyrad and General Dwalin, while Fíli studies diplomacy with Frerin. Both Fíli and Kíli have culture, math, and history lessons in the afternoons with various tutors, if Fíli is not engaged in court and Kíli has no meetings with the military. You three are welcome to join them, if your guardian approves." Dís smiled at Bilbo, who looked down at his cousins.

All three boys stared at him with thinly veiled horror. Bilbo's mouth curled into a small smile. He had noticed the boys' friendship, sometimes wrought with tension, with Kíli, and he imagined that Fíli would balance the group evenly with his patience. At the same time, lessons with the young princes would keep his cousins busy while Bilbo himself worked away the hours.

"I think that's a splendid idea, Your Highness. I have my own lesson plans for them while I work in the mornings, but joining your sons would be good for them."

Kíli, clearly excited by the concept, started to tell the boys about their lessons, with Fíli and Frerin offering advice. Bilbo watched them, pleased, but his attention was drawn away by a short inhalation of breath beside him.

Thorin was staring at him; perhaps he had been doing so for some time. Bilbo immediately flushed, but he did not drop his gaze.

"So you intend to stay the summer with me... and my family?" Thorin asked quietly.

"I do," Bilbo replied, and his ears begin to warm at Thorin's even attention. "That isn't a problem, I hope? I'm sure you have many duties, and I don't mean to intrude..."

"Peace, Bilbo," Thorin said, a small smile widening on his lips. "Be welcome. I do not have so many duties that I cannot make time to see you. Stay as long as you need. My family will look after yours."

"Well," Bilbo stuttered, "that's too kind of you, Th-- Your Majesty --"

Thorin leaned forward to pick up a pitcher of wine, refilling both his and Bilbo's goblets. "How many times must I ask, Bilbo? Call me Thorin. There are no titles between us." He lifted his goblet and watched Bilbo as he drank, and to save himself, Bilbo took his own wine and hurriedly sipped it.

"Fine," he mumbled into his glass. "Thorin. I'll just point them to you if your nobles get mad about me not being proper then, shall I?"

"I can handle them," Thorin agreed easily, sounding rather smug. Bilbo frowned at him, though his lips twitched after a moment and he had to look away to hide the expression.

As the meal went on, the hundreds of Dwarves in the room mingled with song, dance, and drink. The feast was largely informal, much like the mess hall from Thorin's camp, though these Dwarves were better mannered than the soldiers but no less loud. Somehow, Kíli managed to drag Rory and Otho across the room where Bofur had set up camp with his family, and Drogo cajoled Fíli and Frerin into a discussion on various weapons in combat, joined by the foreboding Dwalin and a tall dwarrowdam with a round face and a stern gaze, whom Thorin quietly introduced as Nyrad, Dwalin's second in command.

"She was my general for sixteen years before Dwalin took the position," Thorin explained, keeping his voice low as he talked to Bilbo. "She has graciously remained as his advisor. Dwalin fears her and does not dare go against anything she says, and they make a strong team together. Her children sometimes spar with the boys."

"My," Bilbo admired, fascinated by the differences in gender roles in Dwarven society. Sure, there had been female Bounders in the Shire, but most Hobbit women chose to focus only on business and homemaking. Bilbo's mother would have loved Nyrad; Bilbo hoped to speak with her someday.

Those sitting around them drifted away, mingling with other guests and joining games and conversation about the room. Bilbo and Thorin were left to each other, content to sit quietly. Thorin saw the flashes of unease whenever there was a burst of noise, and Bilbo chose not to comment on the way Thorin's eyes followed his family around the room, always protective.

"Your family is lovely," Bilbo said quietly after a time, as they both watched Kíli try for the third time to draw Rory into a group of dancers.

"Hm?" Thorin looked over at him, startled, before his expression cleared. "I am gratified you think so." Thorin's gaze lingered on Bilbo's face, and Bilbo grew flustered under his attention.

"You've told me so much of them in your letters, that I feel as if I know them already," he replied, his gaze sliding to Dís, who had joined her son and Rory, now arguing good-naturedly with Bofur as if they were old friends.

"They like you as well," Thorin said wryly, his eyes sliding to Kíli, then Fíli across the room. "Kíli has not stopped glorifying you and your cousins since he arrived home yesterday."

"Oh, well," Bilbo blushed, glancing over at Kíli. Rory had crossed his arms in the familiar bull-headed Brandybuck manner, signaling an oncoming row. "He's very bright. I enjoyed speaking with him on the trip up here," Bilbo said, distracted as he watched his cousin with the prince in question. Kíli said something that clearly charmed Rory, as his expression of dismay melted into reluctant admiration.

"Good. I am glad he was there to guide you. He seems smitten with the eldest of your cousins," Thorin trailed off, as Kíli was seized by alcohol-flushed Otho and Drogo and dragged off into the dance. Bilbo breathed out, bemused at Rory's befuddlement.

"Summertime crush, if even that," he sighed, glancing down to see Thorin's fingers relax their grip on his chair. Thorin's snort brought his face back up, and he met Thorin's curious gaze with a blush. "It will fade, no worries."

"I suppose so. Tell me more of your cousin," Thorin requested after a moment, and Bilbo covered his surprise by drinking from his goblet.

"Well," he began, hastily swallowing, "Rory is a Brandybuck, unlike my Baggins cousins, and his mother and my mother were sisters. Though I didn't spend much time at Brandybuck Hall growing up, we saw each other often enough at weddings, parties and the like. It wasn't until Shirefall," his voice dropped slightly, but Thorin's solemn mien gave him courage to continue. "We only had each other, and his father Gorbadoc, and Uncle Gordy's mother, Great Aunt Adaldrida. They were really the only family I had while we were slaves, and for a time the only family I thought left alive. Rory is my closest friend. I'd do anything for him. For all of them," Bilbo murmured. Across the hall, Fíli had joined Kíli, and the two young princes had squared off against Drogo and Otho on the dance floor, the crowd cheering for the young Hobbits.

"I did not realize he had been with you there," Thorin said quietly, and Bilbo smiled. It was not a happy expression.

"Rory kept us sane in those caves. I will never be able to repay him for all that he did for me... for us, during those years."

The heavy tone of their conversation stayed between them, but the silence was not uncomfortable, for the moments it lasted. Then Thorin leaned back with a low chuckle, not dismissing the topic, instead casting his gaze to Bilbo.

"That sounds familiar."

Bilbo shot him a look. "Indeed," he frowned, but Thorin glanced pointedly at the key on Bilbo's chest, which made him huff and reach up to finger it, his most familiar habit now. Thorin followed the line of his finger against the shining silver, a low sigh escaping him.

"Oh, we'll get to that later, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo sniffed. Thorin merely nodded, as if he expected the impending argument -- which, by their lengthy letters, meant he would not back down from Bilbo. Thorin was galling and frustrating, yet Bilbo warmed at the thought of talking more in person about their letters.

"Rory is a good person," Bilbo continued, putting that topic aside for now. "He's going to be head of his family, bright lad. He hasn't had the proper lessons for it yet, but I still remember what my father taught me, so I've been teaching him and Otho and Drogo what I can, here and there on our journey. I imagine it will work much better with an actual office and written lesson plans, though," he murmured, still pleased at Dís' offer to allow the boys to join the princes for lessons. 

"They have time," Thorin replied after a moment. "I admit that I was... startled, at first... when you first explained your plans. Dís had kept them secret from me, so I had not known your intentions to stay. With the supply run between Erebor and the Vale, your people will have their homes built in no time. You will be able to rest, after such long weeks of travel, and you will have time to teach your cousins what they need."

"I suppose I will," Bilbo said in surprise, watching Thorin with a small, growing smile. "So your sister kept it secret from you, hm?"

"Not for lack of trying on my part," Thorin muttered, and Bilbo turned away to hide his laugh. No wonder Thorin had been so grumpy about it in his letter.

The evening carried on much in the same manner. His cousins came and went, unwilling to leave Bilbo for too long but quite interested in the Dwarves around them, who were as lively as the Dwarves who had worked in Khazad-dûm with Balin, with a stronger impression of community and welcome. Thorin rarely left the table, and when he did, he soon returned to grumble about some dignitary or another, while Dís or Frerin halfheartedly scolded him. He would tell Bilbo about the different people who came to their table, and sometimes Bilbo was startled by his humor and dry sarcasm.

One such diplomat approached their table at least twice, engaging both Thorin and Dís in a very long conversation while Bilbo was distracted by Rory's dissertation on the different ales available on the other side of the hall. He did notice that the Dwarf, a tall, black-haired dwarrow with olive-toned skin, his hair thickly braided and hanging over his full belly. When the Dwarf, with his glittering rings and necklaces, was finally distracted away from the table, Thorin sighed deeply and hung his head.

"Oh, he's not that bad," Frerin said mildly, but he was grinning.

"He's a nightmare," Thorin said shortly. "Every meeting I have with him, he spends twenty minutes just getting to the point! Why did you invite him again?"

"Because we're related to him," Dís answered, her tone amused as she watched Thorin with a small smile.

"Who was that?" Bilbo asked curiously.

"Ambassador Glarkon, from the Iron Hills," Thorin explained tiredly, leaning back in his chair and looking down at Bilbo. "Our cousin Dain rules there, and Glarkon is his wife's brother. He is..."

"A very interesting person," Frerin finished for him, sharing a smirk with Dís. Thorin grumbled but said nothing else, though Bilbo looked after the Ambassador with interest. If he was to succeed in his job as ambassador for the Hobbits, he would need to know the other representatives of the nations of the East.

Bilbo only left the table a few times. The first time, he followed Rory to Bofur's table, where Bofur, Bifur, and Boro were all sitting with a sweet-faced dwarrowdam and a very large Dwarf who could only be her husband, as they hardly left each other's sides. Bifur and Boro also sat close, hands clasped atop the table as they ate and talk, and Bilbo took a chair beside Boro, smiling at them.

"Bilbo! Rory!" Bofur greeted them with a great smile. He looked very much at home with his family, now in stately, deep green clothes, though he still wore his ever-present hat. Something had eased in Bofur, ever since he had returned to Erebor; to be with his family and people again suited him. "Meet my brother Bombur and his wife Ylaris! You know Bifur, of course, and you met Boro earlier. Having a good time up there?"

"Thorin's family is wonderful," Bilbo agreed, while Rory rolled his eyes, glancing back at where Kíli was arguing excitedly with Dwalin and Nyrad, who were both glaring at him.

"To say the least," he muttered. Bofur laughed and grabbed Rory about the shoulders, messing up his curls. Bilbo smiled to see Rory make a face and do little to escape him.

"Come now, Rory, don't let Kíli tease you too hard. Do you want to meet some Dwarves more like your age? I've got four nephews and two nieces --"

"Three nieces, Bofur!" Ylaris chortled. "We had a beautiful girl while you were gone away."

"Three nieces," Bofur continued without batting an eyelash. "Much younger than the princes, and still family besides."

"Family?" Rory blinked, eyeing Bofur in confusion. "How do you mean?"

"What Bofur means," Bifur explained with a wry grin, reaching out to tug at Bofur's hat, "is that our good cousin Níli was Kíli and Fíli's father. Good lad, sad how he went... but we've been friends with the royal family for years. Then my Boro, his sister went and married Thorin's cousin Glóin. So we're all somehow related, at a stretch."

"I didn't know that," Bilbo replied, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Bofur and his family.

"Bofur," Bombur frowned at his brother. Bofur shrugged with a grin.

"I've told them so much else, can't blame me for forgettin' something. Though I'll never forget the first time those two met. Níli'd come to visit from the Blue Mountains, where our relatives lived, and we had just met him in the courtyard when Her Highness wandered out on her way to work. All it took was one look. Though that's another story."

"One look's all you need," Bifur said with a nod, looking over at Boro and smiling happily. Bombur shared a similar look with Ylaris.

"Ach, now I've gone and made them all soppy," Bofur complained. "Come on, Rory, let's go get some more ale."

"Sure thing," Rory agreed readily enough, and somehow he managed to escape before Bilbo had turned back from watching the two couples enjoying each other. Bombur and Ylaris had leaned in and were giggling with matching reddened cheeks.

"Best go join them. Lad's never too far from trouble. Anything you want, heart of my heart?" Bifur asked Boro, who shook his head.

"I'm fine, Bifur." Together, Boro and Bilbo watched Bifur chase Bofur down, and they both grinned at Bofur's squawk across the hall.

"You have a good family," Bilbo said, looking over at Boro.

"So you do, I hear. Bofur's been telling us all about your cousins and what you've done for them. Taking on three boys yourself, that's got gumption, lad. Bofur said something about your aunt, but you've been looking after them for months now, right?"

"Oh," Bilbo said, embarrassed and humbled by the compliment, easily finding all three of his cousins in the crowd. "Honestly, they wouldn't let me escape without them. We have some family that survived, but all three of us... Rory stayed with me while we were in captivity, and then when I got home, Otho and Drogo and I latched onto each other, and we've not let go since. It's sometimes a trial, with them... they're all stubborn and I'm not their father, I'm hardly older than them -- but my aunts have their own children, and we're the only Bagginses left. They're my responsibility."

He looked back to see Boro watching him with a small smile. "They're good lads though, as Bofur tells it. Bit mischievous, but all boys are, at that age. You're all alone, too, no wife... or husband?"

"Er," Bilbo said, his blush brightening. "Hobbits don't... we can't marry other men. I... had a sweetheart, back before Shirefall, but that fell apart."

"Holman would be glad to romance you again," Rory said behind him, and Bilbo jumped, turning around wildly and staring at him in shock. Rory snorted and handed Bilbo an ale, watching Bilbo take it with shaky fingers, grinning as if he had not stunned Bilbo to his core. "Like you could possibly hide that. Aunt Bella and mum gossiped about it for ages."

"My _mother_ knew?" Bilbo gasped, unable to imagine Belladonna Baggins knowing anything about his relationship with Holman. He had hidden it very well, knowing how his father felt about propriety. Rory reached up to rub Bilbo's shoulder, his grin softening, as his dark eyes glittered worriedly.

"Course she knew. Everyone knew, Bilbo, at least everyone who mattered. Why'd you think Otho was such a prat to you? His dad was a clot about it for a while. Aunt Bella and your dad were completely fed up with him. Bagginses," Rory sighed, shaking his head at Bofur and his family, who were all watching with interested expressions. "Clueless, the whole lot of them. I can't take him anywhere."

For a moment, Bilbo could not decide which shocked him more: that his parents had known about his preferences, or that the reason Otho's family had sneered at him so much was because they disapproved of it. Thinking back, it was no wonder his mother had been so exasperated with Bilbo's uncle Longo, if he had struck up a rant about it every time they visited. "Rory," Bilbo tried, his voice strangled. "Could we possibly discuss this later?"

"Sure," Rory replied, eyeing Bilbo. He lowered his gaze briefly, a silent apology, then tipped his head back and greedily drank his ale. Bilbo glared at him, frazzled still, and picked up his own ale to join him.

"Whoa," Bofur said, staring at them both with wide eyes, after Bilbo and Rory wiped their mouths and sat the empty tankards down. "Need another?"

"I'm good," Bilbo said with a huff, reaching up to muss Rory's curls. "Rory's the one I can't take anywhere, apparently, not without him causing a ruckus. You're definitely right, Boro. Every one of my cousins is a mischievous little sod."

"Hey!" Rory protested. "I'm just saying, if you cast flirty eyes at Holman, he'd be head over heels. He always was, Bilbo. We all thought you'd settle down together."

"Well, obviously not," Bilbo said shortly. "We were sweethearts. Holman has his own life now, and I've got my hands full with you three."

"They cannot be all bad," said a deep voice behind him, and again Bilbo whirled around in surprise, finding Thorin of all people standing there. He gaped, wondering how much the king had heard, and his face flushed brilliantly.

Bofur started laughing, great heaving guffaws that shook the table, and Bilbo shot him a glare. "Do your nephews drive you to irritation sometimes, Thorin?" he asked evenly, turning back to Thorin in time to see that the king had narrowed his eyes at Bofur, which did nothing to deter him from his hilarity. Thorin looked down at him and snorted.

"Frequently. They're serving dessert, if you and your cousin would like to join us again," Thorin intoned, casting a curious glance at Rory, who had turned away with shaking shoulders. The younger Hobbit yelped when Bilbo pinched his elbow.

"I should like that very much," Bilbo said, sniffing primly and standing, giving a polite nod to Bofur's family. "We should have tea sometime this week, if you please, Boro. Bofur talked for ages about your business with Bifur, and I'd love to see your shop sometime."

"Come by anytime," Boro said, congenial as he winked. "Bifur and I will tell you all of Bofur's dirty secrets."

"Hey now," Bofur started, but Bilbo grinned and shared a sly look with Boro before following Thorin back to their table. Rory trailed after the two of them, muttering under his breath, only quelling when Bilbo shot him a look.

"I'm glad you get along with Bofur's family," Thorin said to Bilbo, whose cheeks were still quite warm in his embarrassment. "My own family as well."

"I'm glad they like us," Bilbo replied, watching Thorin as they walked. Thorin's thick, dark hair hung around his face in shining waves, drawing attention to his stern brow and blue, blue eyes. He only noticed that they had reached their table when Rory tugged on his elbow and gave him a curious look.

Thorin watched him as he sat down, his gaze bright with interest. Bilbo wished desperately to ask what he had heard earlier; and still his mind churned with the new information Rory had shared. Had everyone truly known about him? And they did not care?

His worries stayed with him for a long time yet, but he was distracted from them, every time Thorin would lean over to tell him something new about someone who came to the table.

As Bilbo finished his second dessert and reached for his wine, his gaze followed the line of Thorin's brow, glancing up to study his crown. The brilliance of the gold was only subdued by the shining gem at the center of the metalwork. With a start Bilbo realized that the jewel was truly glowing; it was not simply a trick of the light. Each of the five members of the royal family shared this shining stone in their crowns, and Bilbo's curiosity finally bubbled over.

"Thorin?" he asked, leaning closer when Thorin glanced at him, "I couldn't help but notice how interesting the gem in your crown is, and your siblings and nephews besides. It might be forward of me to ask, but..."

"Ah," Thorin said, the single sound loaded with a great number of hidden meanings. Irritation, pride, and anxiety flashed across his face, too quick for Bilbo to read deeper into the hints of emotion. "You mean the Arkenstone."

"Is that what it's called?" Bilbo asked, fascinated, yet at the same time, the word sent a shiver down his spine.

"That is what it _was_ called. It is a long story," Thorin hesitated, glancing down at his siblings, but they had already vanished again, along with Bilbo's cousins. "I will tell it, if you wish."

Bilbo leaned back, observing Thorin with interest for a long moment. The minute shifts in his expression, the tension in his back -- this was a story Thorin did not want to tell. "I would like to hear it, but if you wish to keep it to yourself, I do not mind."

"I have no secrets from you, Bilbo. Very well." Thorin reached up and took off his crown, turning it in his hands so that Bilbo could see the gem clearly. "A long time ago, when my grandfather Thrór was king, a shining gem was found in one of the mines. It was named the Arkenstone, and my grandfather took it as a sign of Mahal's blessing on our line. He placed it with pride above himself as part of the throne, and to everyone in the nation, it was known as the Heart of the Mountain.

"My grandfather was obsessed with wealth. Our nation did well under his rule, but the gold that Thrór amassed was legendary. I was very young then, and I did not understand the danger of it at first... but my grandfather became sick with it, with the obsession for gold. When he died... my father fell into the same spell. He believed that the Arkenstone granted him the right to hoard every bit of precious metal that came out of our mountain.

"When my father was overcome with the desire to invade the Misty Mountains for the sake of its legendary silver-steel and died for it, I could abide by their selfishness no longer. Upon receiving my father's remains, I was... enraged. Furious. In my anger, I seized the Arkenstone and the strongest hammer I could find, and I tried to destroy it. I thought it to be the source of their madness.

"I was wrong. The Arkenstone could not be crushed, but it was shattered into seven pieces."

Thorin smiled slightly at Bilbo's wide-eyed attention. "In our history, seven is a fortuitous and divine number. The seven Fathers of the Khazad, the seven rings gifted to us, seven lives of our father... The number of pieces shocked me then. When my siblings found me, they were just as shocked, and together we decided to craft the pieces into crowns for our family. Níli's crown remains in the treasury, and Bala never received one of the pieces, having died too early... so one piece remains, either for Fíli's child when he becomes king, or for the spouse of either of my nephews."

Thorin set the crown back on his head, the gold gleaming against his dark hair, and Bilbo marveled at the history that Thorin had not told; he had known very little about Thorin's immediate forefathers, and he saw in Thorin a sense of shame, that his ancestors had been so wrought with the desire for wealth.

"The heart of the mountain... always remains with the royal family, hm?" he murmured, catching Thorin's attention. "That is a grand story indeed. Thank you for telling me... for sharing that part of your... your history."

He was startled by Thorin's small smile, the piece of the Arkenstone gleaming as Thorin tilted his head, his gaze fastened to Bilbo's face. "Anything you wish to know, Bilbo, I will gladly share with you. Simply ask."

"I'll do that," BIlbo replied quietly, fiddling with the key on his chest as his heart beat faster. "I have many questions for you, Thorin."

They were interrupted when Thorin's nephews returned, giggling about some contest they had won, and Thorin turned away to congratulate them, while Bilbo dropped his gaze to his glass.

Every time he spoke with Thorin, his opinion of the Dwarf King grew, bubbling over with changing intentions and hopes. Yet the mystery of him, of the secrets in his thoughts and demeanor, which Bilbo could read too easily, stayed with him, clingnig to the edge of his thoughts each time he glanced at Thorin.

He had not expected his obsession to grow.

The second time Bilbo ventured from Thorin's table, he was quickly overcome by the forceful and stern visage of his old Dwarven healer.

"Good to see you, lad," Óin's thick accent curled in his ear, and Bilbo turned to see the Healer himself with a cheery grin. "You look well! Though I'll have to see that for myself."

"Healer Óin," Bilbo said warmly. "Well met. I've taken good care of myself, as you can see."

"Aye, you're looking miles better now." Óin surveyed him with a healer's eye, squinting as he looked over Bilbo's figure. Bilbo had filled out in several ways since he had last seen Óin; he was eating regularly, had gained enough weight not to be starved anymore, and even had some of his old physique back from walking for months. His scars were less visible, and while still light-toned after years without sunshine, his skin had tanned some from walking in the sun all spring.

"The wonders of a good diet and access to sunlight," Bilbo replied blithely. Óin roared with laughter, drawing the attention of people surrounding them.

"Too true, lad! Aye, we'll take a proper look at you tomorrow, no later than nine on the dot. Bring your family if you like, too," Óin chuckled, patting Bilbo on the shoulder and steering him back to Thorin's table. "Now keep eating! You're still too skinny! Too small, this belly," he frowned, poking Bilbo's stomach.

"I'll have you know, Healer Óin," Bilbo said in affront, but he was laughing. Thorin watched them with a raised eyebrow, his gaze dropping to Bilbo's belly as well.

"He has a point."

"Shush, you," Bilbo scolded the king, then immediately he blushed, shying away from Óin's hand when Thorin looked at him in surprise. "I've done well to fill my belly when I can. Need to keep up with you dwarrows, haven't I?" He raised an eyebrow, pleased with Thorin huffed a small laugh.

Thorin narrowed his eyes, but there was still a tiny tilt to his mouth that belied humor. "I believe we spoke of this before, didn't we?"

"We did indeed," Bilbo replied, his tone softening in memory. He would never forget his conversations with Thorin. "Another promise you made to me, that you kept without my realization."

"I try." Thorin did smile now, a tad smug. Their audience looked between them, confused by the knowledge they did not speak.

"Promises?" asked Dís, her eyes keen as she glanced at Bilbo.

"Yes," Bilbo responded, not taking his eyes from the king. Thorin's smile faded slowly, almost apprehensive as he watched Bilbo. "When Thorin Oakenshield saved my people from Azog the Defiler, he made a number of promises, all of which have either come true or are becoming reality as we speak. It is truly amazing to see a king so dedicated to both his own people and to strangers from across the way."

"You're more than that now, Bilbo," Thorin started, but Bilbo only smiled at him, sliding his fingers around the stem of his goblet.

"I am not a king. I did not look upon the actions of a monster and move an entire race to destroy him. You did, Thorin. You worked for many years to save and free my people from slavery and certain death. No one else considered it." He looked over at Dis and Frerin briefly, his back straightening at the regard in their expressions, but Thorin's expression drew his attention again. "That he did not know, at first, that we were captive at all is of no regard. Thorin saw the danger in leaving Azog alive, without turning away once or giving up hope. Thousands of Dwarves from all seven clans marched through the mountains, but I don't think anyone but the King you see before you could have brought them together."

He wet his lips, glancing away from Thorin's vivid blue gaze to realize that he had quite the audience now. With only a faint blush, Bilbo looked to Thorin again.

"The Shire was not the only target that creature wished to destroy, though it was the only one he succeeded at annihilating. Azog had maps of the world, and he planned widespread destruction by the looks of it. Erebor, Ered Luin, Gondor, Rohan, the Greenwood... All of the great cities of Men, Elves, and Dwarves had marks on them. But Azog could never go that far, because Thorin distracted him from his plans and defeated him.

"King Thorin did more than save the Hobbits or protect his people with his war march. He saved countless lives and brought down an empire of darkness, because he saw evil and promised to defeat it."

Much of the hall was silent now, as Bilbo's voice carried over the Dwarves. They were nodding, some reluctantly or with small frowns, but all looked to their king with respect, eyes shining. Thorin kept an impassive demeanor, but his gaze burned brightly as he watched Bilbo.

"It comes back to promises. Thorin made a promise, and nothing in the world could stop him from keeping it. He promised us our freedom. He promised that we would be happy again, and we _are_. That is why I respect your king, and why my people will forever honor him and the Dwarves for their deeds."

He blushed and picked up his goblet, more a nervous movement than anything, but there was a rush of noise as the Dwarves around them mirrored him.

"To King Thorin," Dwalin said suddenly, raising his glass.

"To King Thorin," hundreds of Dwarves echoed.

"To King Thorin," Bilbo murmured, holding gazes with his savior and friend.

Thorin did not look away from Bilbo, perhaps could not, as his people toasted him in honor. The respectful silence fell into low conversation, the mood calming as the night wore on. Bilbo relaxed into his chair, watching Thorin as he greeted the Dwarves that came to their table, letting himself be introduced. Some of them he recognized; captains from the war, who thanked him again and sometimes saluted him with a pounded fist to their chest; dignitaries who represented different clans or families of great influence in Erebor; even some of the guild masters that worked beneath Dís.

Bilbo was tired, though, from his long day. His belly was full and he was tipsy on ale and wine, while taking pleasure in the great variety of puddings, cakes, and sweets left for everyone to enjoy. Across the hall, Rory was clapping as Otho and Drogo danced to a lively tune, Kíli and Fíli cheering beside him. Frerin had commandeered the last bottle of wine and was sitting close with his sister, his light hair brushing against her dark locks as they talked in low tones. Many Dwarves had already retired, and still more drank and ate around the hall, merry as they feasted.

He was alone. Thorin had left the table for a time; Bilbo had seen him with Dwalin for a short while, smiling into a heavy tankard while blue eyes flashed at Bilbo occasionally. A small crowd of Dwarves moved, and Bilbo saw Thorin standing in the center of the hall, talking to Ambassador Glarkon again.

Thorin looked like he wanted to turn tail and flee. Bilbo hid a smile, watching Thorin shuffle and glance around, as if looking for an escape from the loquacious Dwarf, but none stepped forward to save him. He briefly met Bilbo's gaze but moved on to his siblings in desperation, who were watching him with amusement with no intentions of coming to his rescue.

"Oh, fine," Bilbo sighed to himself, standing and walking over to the pair. He smiled charmingly up at Glarkon, coming to stand at Thorin's side.

"Ah, Bilbo," Thorin said with obvious relief. Bilbo wanted to tell him he was fooling nobody. "I'm not sure if you've met Ambassador Glarkon from the Iron Hills."

"Hello, Ambassador," Bilbo said politely, and the tall Dwarf looked over him with a booming smile.

"If it isn't the guest of honor himself! Welcome, Ambassador Baggins! I hope we work well together in the future," Glarkon said, teeth gleaming white as he smiled at Bilbo.

"Oh," Bilbo startled, blinking up at him. "I'm not an ambassador yet, though, not like your esteemed self."

"Ah, but you already plan to be! And what else may you do here, but represent the Hobbits of the Vale! You're already off to a fine start, with that lovely speech you made earlier." Glarkon grinned at him, and Bilbo was bemused by Thorin staring at them both in silent shock.

"Well, thank you, Ambassador. I was wondering, might I borrow Thorin for a moment?" Bilbo asked, polite and firm, as if Glarkon was a particularly nosy relative that Bungo Baggins wanted out of his sitting room.

"Oh," Glarkon said, glancing between him and Thorin, his eyes widening as he smiled. "Of course. Good show, by the way, Ambassador Baggins. Most impressive first look, bit unorthodox but no less great for our good king. I remember when I first saw --"

Bilbo, sensing a long story, interrupted with a bright smile. "I'm terribly sorry, Ambassador, you'll simply have to tell me next time. Thorin made a promise to me, after all, and I intend to have him fulfill it. I hope you'll have a good night?"

Glarkon did not look bothered by the interruption, catching Bilbo's gaze and winking. "Of course, of course. The number of times I've needed a moment alone with mine! Good evening, Your Majesty, and to you, Ambassador." He bowed low to Thorin and tipped his head to Bilbo, then walked away, his great presence parting the crowd easily.

"Frerin was right," Bilbo murmured to Thorin, who was still thunderstruck. "He is a very interesting person. He's just like my uncle Longo, you know, and I'll tell you now, Thorin, I know all about getting rid of droning relatives when they're interested in your crockery. You just need to know the right verbage, and off they go before realizing you've convinced them away." He beamed up at Thorin, who looked between him and Glarkon's diminishing back, his thick eyebrows high on his forehead.

Then Thorin threw his head back and laughed, long and loud, drawing the attention of everyone around them. They stared at their king in shock, beginning to smile as his laughter rang across the room. Dís and Frerin had stopped talking, their eyes wide as they watched Thorin. Fíli and Kíli had turned around, their gazes finding Thorin immediately.

Bilbo stared up at him, entranced.

"Ah, you are a gem, Bilbo Baggins," Thorin said as his laughter faded, grinning down at Bilbo. "I knew you would be perfect at this. No one's ever gotten rid of him that quickly." He looked amazed for a moment, his lips tugging up in a boyish grin. The expression suited him, Bilbo thought, then flushed.

"You can't just say things like that," he said feebly, turning away and hurrying back to the table. Thorin followed, still chuckling as he took his seat, grinning at his brother and sister as they turned to stare at him.

"Oh? I say them frequently enough in our letters. Must I say it every day to make you believe me?" He smiled at Bilbo, whose ears were horribly warm.

"I didn't believe it then, and I won't believe you if you do." He sniffed at Thorin's raised eyebrow, looking away and finding his cousins in the crowd. All three boys were drinking again, much to the amazement of the dwarrows around them. Bilbo yawned, covering his mouth, and he heard a small huff from Thorin.

"You're tired."

"I had a long day," Bilbo replied, catching his gaze and raising his eyebrows. "There was this trip up a river, if I remember, and a mountain, and an introduction to a kingdom. Not to mention a ceremony, and a _feast._ I'm full, and sleepy, and I've got three young Hobbits to wrangle away from their ale." He made no move to stand, though, content where he was.

"Certainly a trial, all that," Thorin said dryly. "Your cousins do not seem ready to sleep yet."

"They will," Bilbo said with a wave of his hand. "As soon as they drink enough, they'll be out like a candle."

"I can escort them back to their rooms," Frerin interjected, looking between Bilbo and Thorin with interest. "I'll be up for a while yet."

Bilbo blinked at him, having forgotten for a moment that Frerin and Dís were still sitting there. "Oh, but you don't have to," he started, but Frerin held up a hand.

"I insist. We cannot neglect the needs of our guests. Your cousins will be safe here. Fíli and Kíli would never let anything happen to them."

Bilbo's ears warmed, and he dropped his gaze. "I didn't mean to imply anything like that."

"Oh, you did not," Frerin replied. "No worries, Bilbo." He smiled, and next to him Dís mirrored the expression, her cheeks flushed from a good evening of revelry and family. Something had softened their usually stern miens as they gazed at Bilbo, though he could hardly imagine what. Bilbo looked between the three siblings, admiring them for a moment, then sighed deeply.

"Well, alright. If I can find my way back to my room," he trailed off, then jumped when Thorin stood suddenly.

"I can escort you," Thorin explained, his gaze dark and deep as he watched Bilbo. Bilbo stared at him, smiling hesitantly, warm and shy at the same time. He would be alone with Thorin.

"I would like that," he replied quietly. He stood and glanced across the room, catching Rory's gaze when he looked over and tilting his head toward the great doors. Rory blinked at him, glancing beyond him at Thorin, then gestured his acceptance and turned back to Bilbo's cousins, bowing his head to speak to them.

Instead of the great main doors, Thorin led Bilbo to a small door hidden behind a curtain, that opened into an empty hallway. The noise of the hall died away when the door shut, but the silence between them was not uncomfortable.

They walked quietly through the palace, side by side. When they came to one of the long hallways that wrapped around the edge of the palace, revealing a grand and daunting view of the brilliant city, sparkling beneath them, Thorin slowed his pace. He went to stand at the rampart, his large hands gripping the deep grey stone gently, which shown gold and green beneath the lantern light.

Bilbo joined him after a moment, his breath catching in his throat when he looked down at the city. Dazzling, beautiful, astounding, breathtaking -- he could not take his eyes from the grand city that was Erebor. In many ways, it was the city of his dreams, had been for some time. His gaze shifted to the side after a time, finding the Dwarf who had, in quite similar ways, remained his goal for many months now. He had made a promise to Thorin; and now he was keeping it, yet he still could not understand what lay between them, no matter how he wished to define it.

"I understand you are tired," Thorin said finally, turning to face Bilbo, his deep blue eyes glittering as the city lights reflected on them. "But perhaps you would walk with me for a while yet? I want..." he trailed off, looking hesitant and determined in the same moment.

Bilbo saved him the effort of finding an excuse. In truth, neither of them needed one, when it came to each other. It was easy to realize that. "I'd be happy to," Bilbo replied quietly, smiling up at Thorin. He was startled and pleased when Thorin smiled back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait! The past two months have been SO BUSY, but thank you for waiting so patiently! All of you are amazing! Also, thank you to the perfect kaavyawriting for betaing this madness. :D
> 
> Oh! [pheasantmadness](pheasantmadness.tumblr.com), perfect soul, drew this stunning [picture of King Thorin](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/94005889677/punches-wall-i-tried-fanart-for-the-wonderful) with [the crown I designed!!](http://amberstarfight.tumblr.com/post/90915159414/the-crowns-of-the-royal-family-of-erebor) *STILL SPARKLING*


	38. In your eyes

Khazad-dûm and Erebor contrasted each other in a myriad of ways. Erebor, with its arching ceilings and massive pillars, spiraling through ancient crevices in the rock, felt infinitely less suffocating and closed in than Khazad-dûm. The City under the Lonely Mountain had been carved, rock by rock, from the dense stone of the mountain, and Longbeard dwarrows had chosen to create massive, spacious rooms that housed the city, palace, and suburbs. 

Even with stalactites hanging overhead and the obvious lack of sky, Bilbo felt no more claustrophobic in Erebor than he had in the Shire. After seven years of darkness, of tight hallways and the echo of war drums against the stone, Bilbo had rightly feared entering Khazad-dûm again, even as a guest. He had hated living in those halls for the few days they had spent in Balin's care. After his kidnapping at Bolg's hands, there had been moments of terror, of revulsion at the idea of going underground again. Bilbo had suppressed those fears as best as he could, knowing he would enter a mountain again to see Thorin.

Erebor was so very different from Khazad-dûm. Even the Khazad-dûm filled with dwarrows and cheer could not compare to standing in Thorin's city. Now at night, the great lanterns were dimmed and the streets were mostly empty of people, but there was some traffic in various districts that Bilbo could see. When one lived underground, there was less need to arrange one's day by the sun; it seemed that many Dwarves worked long after Hobbits and Men had gone to bed.

The haze of exhaustion had settled on his shoulders, yet Bilbo walked steadily beside Thorin as they ambled through the city. The day had been far too long, from waking early to board the boat to travel to Erebor, all the way to sitting at Thorin's side and laughing at his dry humor. He was peaceful, though. He knew he would sleep well when he reached his rooms, later.

His gaze wandered to Thorin, lingering on his stern visage and solemn brow. Despite his exhaustion, he did not wish to sleep. Not just yet.

~

Walking beside Bilbo seemed like the memory of a dream.

The relief in the knowledge that Bilbo was now in his kingdom, under his protection, threatened to overwhelm Thorin. The past several weeks, months even -- really, ever since he had let Bilbo go home -- of worry and stress now seemed faraway in Bilbo's company.

Thorin could not explain his calm. Seeing Bilbo's face, no longer thinned from hunger, left him content just to look upon him. It was any wonder that Bilbo did not think he had some sort of tic, with the way he kept glancing over at the Hobbit.

Bilbo looked over at him then, and Thorin cursed himself to see the exhaustion in his mien. Yet Bilbo smiled at him, truly happy to walk with him, and Thorin bit back his apology for keeping Bilbo awake.

Instead, Thorin said quietly, "I suppose it is my turn, now."

Bilbo blinked up at him, looking curious and confused in the same glance. Thorin grimaced and looked across the city, his mien relaxing after a moment. "You once told me you could not find the words to express how you felt. Now it is I who cannot express what I wish to say to you." He turned to see dark eyes focused on his face, a small smile playing on Bilbo's lips.

"Yet I found the words anyway," Bilbo replied, and Thorin watched how his gaze softened with nostalgia.

It gladdened him to know that Bilbo remembered that day as clearly as Thorin did.

"So you did," Thorin murmured. "You surprised me then, you know. A tiny, frail Hobbit as yourself --"

"Frail," Bilbo interjected with a raised eyebrow, and Thorin glanced away as his lips twitched.

"At that time," he amended quickly.

Bilbo faltered, and when Thorin glanced at him again, his cheeks were steadily darkening with a pink flush. "Well... at the time, yes. I suppose. I was a bit of a mess at that point," he floundered, and Thorin reached out to clasp his shoulder, noticing that Bilbo did not sway or shrink away, and that his shoulder felt firm and strong under Thorin's fingers. He almost faltered himself, when Bilbo looked up at him with wide, dark eyes, dark blond curls falling in his face. 

"You were, and are, the bravest person I have met, Bilbo. The person you were then is the same person who stands at my side today, and I am grateful to know you. The state of your mind and body then... they are not the same today. You were _hurt_ , and that cannot... it does not reflect on who you are. You kept your promise to me, did you not?"

Bilbo, whose slim shoulder had once seemed fragile as glass to Thorin, blushed deeply, but his gaze was steady as he looked at Thorin, his rounded features softening again. "How do you do that?" he questioned, voice low, then gaining confidence. "How do you see into me so well?"

Thorin's ears began to burn, between Bilbo's earnest expression and the frankness of his own words. He glanced away, fumbling for a response, for an answer, that he knew he did not have. "I just... see you," he finally replied, his voice quiet, turning in time to see Bilbo's face light up with the most brilliant blush Thorin had witnessed yet. His own cheeks burned, and Thorin had to clear his throat, unable to speak for several moments as they walked together.

"You surprise me each time I speak to you, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo murmured, his voice carrying unspoken promise to Thorin's ears. They left the balcony then, walking into the palace proper, and Bilbo's gaze was drawn to the rigid architecture, the stone shining in deep greens and greys. Thorin watched him, curious, and Bilbo looked up at him with a faint smile, the shadows in his eyes deepening. "I'll just have to work extra hard to do the same for you, to repay you, and to assist you in any way I can."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, recalling their letters and letting out a short laugh. "Did we not discuss this? Our friendship is not a contest. Though, I will win, anyway, if it were. After all, we are in my kingdom, and I have every resource to spoil you with."

Bilbo huffed, exasperated with him, which pleased Thorin in great measures. "You will not win, you stubborn Dwarf. It isn't a contest, didn't you just say that?"

"Hm, I cannot recall," Thorin teased, blithe and content with the flat look Bilbo leveled on him. "Though I do not jest when I say if you have any need, any desire at all, do not hesitate to ask me, Bilbo."

Bilbo sighed deeply, as if relying on Thorin in such a way was a great burden, and Thorin had the thought that perhaps it was, that perhaps Bilbo had been so intent on never burdening anyone else, that he rarely allowed himself to depend on others. His lips twitched downward, even as Bilbo shook a finger at him. "We also discussed that, Thorin. No spoiling, no going out of your way for me. Didn't you read my letter? I must have lectured you for two pages at least."

"I did read it," Thorin agreed, turning to descend a grand stairway, his hand sliding down the golden banister. Bilbo stepped down behind him, and Thorin continued, "I then ignored it. Did you not read _my_ letter?"

"Must have ignored it," Bilbo sniped at the back of his head, and Thorin smiled to himself. "I would like to walk about Erebor with you, though, when I am less tired." He sighed, and Thorin was turning toward him as Bilbo reached the bottom of the stairwell, only to see Bilbo's knees buckle. "Oh!" Bilbo cried as he slipped on the last step. Thorin's hand shot out and caught Bilbo's chest, while Bilbo grabbed onto his cloak and froze.

"Must be more tired than I thought," Bilbo said weakly into Thorin's shirt, muffled as his feet, large as they were, found level ground and pressed down, making Bilbo straighten and look up into Thorin's face.

"That was not exhaustion," Thorin said slowly. "Are you alright?" He tugged at Bilbo's coat to straighten it, stepping back and surveying his legs with a skeptical frown. Now that he thought about it, this was not the first time he had noticed Bilbo's shakiness; he had rarely left the table, and the few times he had, there had been a fine tremor in his fingers and knees, that Thorin had hardly paid any attention before. Was Bilbo well?

Bilbo's cheeks flushed as his gaze dropped, and his fingers slid nervously down to Thorin's arms, not quite letting go of him. "It's just been a long day," he said, his gaze darting to the side. Thorin had seen that expression before on his brother, nephews, even Dwalin; Bilbo was hiding something from him.

"Are you hurt? Why did you not tell me?" Thorin asked, looking down at Bilbo worriedly, surveying his legs closely. Bilbo shifted out of his grip and shook his head.

"I'm not hurt, Thorin, it's alright. I'm just -- it truly has been been a long and tiresome day, and I've been on my feet for too long. It's nothing to worry about," Bilbo explained, and his face was earnest, pleading even, for Thorin to forget it.

He did not. "Bilbo, if anything is wrong --"

"Nothing is wrong," Bilbo said quickly, then sighed deeply at the look Thorin gave him. "Nothing like what you must be thinking. It's an old ache. I just need to sit for a while."

"Let me show you back to your room, then," Thorin replied quietly, turning away. He had heard the nerves in Bilbo's voice and did not think he was telling him the full truth, but neither was he truly lying.

He did not question Bilbo, though. Instead he let go and stepped back, and when Bilbo had righted himself, began walking again. If his pace was slightly slower, Bilbo did not comment on it, staying at Thorin's side but keeping his head down.

Thorin did not like that, not one bit. "Do you know," he said deliberately, waiting until Bilbo looked up at him in question, "that there is a secret passageway from the next hallway that leads down to the heart of the palace?"

Bilbo's expression was one of befuddlement and suspicion, making Thorin's lips twitch. "The heart of the palace?" he asked carefully.

Thorin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, admiring the fall of Bilbo's curls against his ear, then shaking himself for the thought. "The kitchens," he explained solemnly, and he could not stop his small smile when Bilbo's eyes lit up.

"Do tell," Bilbo returned, his lips twisting in a matching smile. "It's almost as if you know the magic words to charm a Hobbit."

"I kept up a correspondence over the past few months with a Hobbit, actually," Thorin agreed, pleased when Bilbo snorted. They turned down the hallway, the last one before the hall where Bilbo and his family were staying, and Thorin went to a long curtain, pulling it aside to reveal a set of stairs that twisted downward into shadows flickering with lamplight.

"Down there, then go left and straight on. Takes you right to the kitchens," Thorin said, dropping the curtain and continuing down the hall, while Bilbo looked back at the hidden passageway, obviously charmed. "One of my great grandmothers grew tired of taking long walks during the night when she was hungry and pregnant, so she had secret passageways created that would take her to the kitchen from all around the palace. Not many dwarrows use them, but my siblings and I played with them often in my youth."

"That's a lovely story," Bilbo murmured, smiling up at Thorin. "You will have to show me more. I daresay I may even use them often."

"You are welcome to do so," Thorin replied. "Once you know the trick of them, you can reach anywhere in the palace with ease. Save you a bit of walking," he said casually, and Bilbo shot him a sharp glance.

After a moment of quiet, Bilbo said with a hint of irritation, "You are far too observant for my nerves." He huffed a sigh and said no more, even when Thorin looked down at him, and soon enough they were standing at Bilbo's door, which he opened before Thorin could offer.

"Ah, but these rooms truly are lovely," Bilbo said as he entered the living area, and Thorin stood in the doorway, watching him with a small smile. He did not miss how Bilbo went to sit on the couch, knees shaking slightly as they met the soft cushion, nor did he miss Bilbo glancing his way.

"Aren't you going to join me?" Bilbo queried, looking shy and determined at once, and Thorin sighed slowly, then closed the door.

He went to the fireplace which had recently been stoked by servants, holding a hand out to Bilbo who moved to help him. He tossed a couple logs on the fire and went to sit at Bilbo's side, unable to stay away, not yet willing to leave him. Thorin pulled off his crown and set it on the table, leaving his heavy cape hanging over the back of the couch.

Bilbo did not object, merely watching him as he sat down a seat away. They sat silently together, though Thorin could tell how exhausted Bilbo was by the slump of his shoulders and the slackened daze in his eyes. He saw now the fine trembling in Bilbo's knees and hands, and he worried.

"I didn't want you to see me like this," Bilbo said after a moment, looking down at his knees and grasping them lightly, fingers pulling the fabric tight. "I wanted to come to you and show you how strong I am now. How I'm not..."

"But you are strong," Thorin said, bewildered. "I already knew that, Bilbo. Were you wounded? Should I call for Óin or one of the healers?" He tensed, ready to stand the moment Bilbo said yes.

Bilbo looked up at him in surprise, shaking his head already. "Oh, no, it's alright! I'll seen Óin tomorrow, anyway, if you really want me to ask him. It's just... I suppose, it is a remnant of my time in Moria. Sometimes if I walk or stand too long, my joints ache. It was terrible while we were traveling, but a good rest usually solves the trouble. I just... didn't want you to see it," he finished, his gaze dropping as his voice fell quiet.

Thorin stared at him, unable to find a response. The silence stretched between them, until Bilbo dared to look up at him. Something in Thorin's expression startled him into saying, "I promised you! I promised I would be whole and healthy when I came here, that we could be on equal ground, and the truth is, Thorin, I'm not at all. I'm weak physically, and I'm angry much of the time, and I feel awkward and anxious and worried. I don't know how you can look at me like that," he cried, and Thorin's mien softened.

He gripped his hands between his knees and stared down at the Ring of Power on his finger, glittering blue in the firelight, thinking of the shadows at the edge of his mind and calling up the courage that the Hobbit beside him had always inspired. Bilbo was silent beside him, and out of the corner of his eye, Thorin saw his dark grey eyes narrowing in bewilderment.

"I have rages," Thorin said into the quiet, twisting the ring on his finger. "Some days I become so angry I black out, and come to my senses hours later to realize that I have shouted at every person I came across during the day. I have old wounds that ache terribly at times, to the point that my healer forces me to spend hours in medicinal baths that stink and leave me exhausted from the herbs. I do not sleep well, and I have nightmares, sometimes."

He glanced over and saw the worry in Bilbo's face, as if he might stand up then and usher Thorin to bed himself, his dark eyes darting over Thorin's shoulders and chest, seeking wounds that may still hurt him. There was no judgement in Bilbo's face, only open encouragement, and Thorin's shoulders relaxed. Thorin did not speak of his afflictions often; only to family or his healer, and only under duress or extreme threat. 

His lips twitched. "My point is, I am hardly whole and perfect, and I cannot expect you to be, either. We have both been through trauma. It seems that we are on more even footing than ever before... in my opinion."

"Thorin," Bilbo breathed, his small face screwing up. "You are wholly unfair." He wavered, before Bilbo held out his hand, and in surprise Thorin took it before he could stop himself. Beneath his fingers, Bilbo's palm was warm and dry. Bilbo released a sigh through his nose and leaned back. "Then I must tell you, that I still have nightmares, too. My joints ache and sometimes I feel as if I cannot walk. I do not like it when people touch me, though there are exclusions," Bilbo added sharply, eyeing Thorin when he made as if to pull his hand back. "I am likely worse off than you."

"I doubt it," Thorin grunted. Bilbo frowned at him. "My years stretch far beyond yours, so I have seen more horror. War. Death. My nephews during their pranking phase."

"I thought it wasn't a contest," Bilbo remarked, exasperated. Thorin's mouth twitched with a small grin, but he smoothed it when Bilbo rolled his eyes. He had never felt so at ease with anybody before; he rarely joked like this even with his family, yet it was simple with Bilbo. Perhaps their comfort with each other was because of their letters, or because Thorin had thought about Bilbo so often, but he could not say either way. He did not worry about it.

Bilbo let go of his hand and stood to face him, putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed Thorin. "Let me tell you something, Thorin Oakenshield."

"You can call me just Thorin, you know," Thorin interjected, gazing up at him, but Bilbo ignored him as if he had not spoken.

"You are not the only person in this room who knows the other so well. I've known you as long as you've known me, and I can tell you many interesting things about yourself. I know exactly what kind of Dwarf you are," he said, imperious as he pointed at Thorin's nose, but then his hand fell and his tone softened. 

"I see into you as well. A bit too well, I think... and such that you are, it gladdens me to know you. Just as it makes me happy when you are honest with me like this... when we can speak like this with each other." Bilbo smiled then, his upturned nose turning pink as Thorin watched, entranced. "It's just... easy, with you."

A small smile spread over Thorin's mouth as he gazed up at Bilbo, his chest aching fiercely for a moment. Oh, how he had worried when he had received word of Bilbo's disappearance, how he remained wrought with anxiety for months, through the winter and into the spring, worrying for this Hobbit who had left such an impression on him. Yet here stood Bilbo, right before his eyes, well and whole and safe, exasperated with him and happy to remain at his side in the same breath.

"Good," he murmured, and he was rewarded when Bilbo's blush spread up to his ears. He stood then and reached up to grasp Bilbo's shoulder, breathing out lowly as Bilbo reached up to grip his hand briefly. He stepped back to give them both room, turning to walk to the garden door, glancing back at Bilbo. "Tell me, do you truly enjoy your rooms?"

Bilbo followed him after a moment, pushing open the door and stepping into the garden, a deep sigh leaving his shoulders drooping as he relaxed. Thorin walked down into the garden, trailing after Bilbo as he looked upon the garden, and strode to one of the lanterns, lighting it with a bit of flint kept in a small drawer at the bottom of the lantern case. The lantern flared to life, casting bright golden light over the garden and upon Bilbo's face, watching Thorin silently.

"You did not have to do this for me," Bilbo said quietly, but his gaze was soft and fond as he looked around the garden. "It's beautiful, and I'm afraid to admit that I love it." He walked over to the bench and sat down, rubbing his knees again, and after a moment Thorin went to the barrier, leaning back as he looked down at Bilbo.

"So your knees ache on occasion?" Thorin asked after a moment, and Bilbo shot him a look, his knees tucking together self-consciously.

"Most of my joints. Since we lived without sunlight for many years, many of the slaves lost what good it used to do for us. Walking for a long time does not seem to bother me, unless I climb tall hills or stand still for too long. I asked a healer in Rivendell about it, once, but he could not tell me much. Perhaps Healer Óin will be able to help," Bilbo sighed, leaning back on his bench and clasping his hands over his belly, which looked full with a small bulge beneath his jacket. Thorin was gladdened by the sight of it.

"I believe he wrangled you and your cousins into an appointment tomorrow morning. Perhaps he will prescribe a soak in the baths," Thorin said, making Bilbo raise his eyebrows in question.

"Oh? Are the baths here like the one in Moria? Where you left me that lovely soap." Bilbo beamed for a moment, and Thorin felt his face warm beneath his beard. He still felt embarrassed by that decision; he had dared to tell Balin, who had remained befuddled by him for the rest of his days in Khazad-dûm.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he managed to say. "No, I meant the hot springs. Did I not tell you?"

Bilbo shook his head, his dark eyes wide with curiosity. "You did not. What hot springs?"

Thorin's mouth curled slightly, and he reached up to stroke down the long braid of his beard, fingering the small, shiny beads. "Erebor is home to natural springs that bubble hot from the stone. We have turned them into functional baths, depending on the temperature, and there are many public bath houses throughout Erebor. It is the custom of many Dwarves to soak after a long day's work, and there are many businesses dedicated to bathing products. It is good for the body and hair."

Bilbo's gaze was drawn to the bubbling waterfall that fell down the side of the garden barrier, into the shadows of another cave below that glittered with water. "How fascinating! I've never heard of natural hot springs! Is it because Erebor is so deep underground?"

"Yes, the mountain's blood runs visible in many crevices and tunnels, and it heats up the water as it travels through the stone. Some bath houses require a fee, but others are free for the public. Those tend to be crowded, though," Thorin said thoughtfully, and Bilbo blinked at him.

"Mountain's blood?"

"Ah," Thorin said, realizing Bilbo could not know, despite living in Khazad-dûm for years, as he was not a Dwarf. "Did you never see any in Khazad-dûm? The molten rock that moves the earth. Its temperature runs too high for anyone to touch, hotter than the mightiest of our forges." His lips twitched. "They say that the first dwarrows learned to smelt at Mahal's knees, and that Mahal himself used the earth's blood to forge his work."

"Now that I think about it," Bilbo said slowly, "there was a cave deep in the tunnels, where there was a fiery glow at the end. I never got too close, for fear that Orcs lived down in the tunnel, but it might have been that. I should like to see it."

Thorin nodded, turning to look down at the city, satisfied that the view was enviable to anyone else. It had been luck to find that this wing of the palace was up for renovations, and the team Thorin had hired had done a grand job. "I will take you sometime, then." After a moment, Bilbo stood and came to Thorin's side, leaning against the stone and gazing down at the city.

"You spoiled me with this place, Thorin," Bilbo said quietly. "I should be very cross with you, and perhaps it is my exhaustion speaking, but I cannot be upset at all. Perhaps that will change in the morning." He flashed a small smile at Thorin, whose breath caught in his throat to see the lights of the city twinkling in Bilbo's eyes.

"I should let you sleep," Thorin replied after a moment, his voice just as hushed.

Bilbo shook his head, tilting his head back to watch Thorin, and his tone was faintly plaintive when he spoke. "Won't you stay with me for a while yet? Now that I am here..."

Thorin understood what Bilbo did not, perhaps could not say. Thorin could not resist his plea, not when Bilbo looked at him like that. Truthfully, he did not want to let Bilbo out of his sight just yet. 

"Do you have any questions of Erebor?" Thorin asked after a moment, watching Bilbo tilt his head to the side in contemplation.

"Many, but I could not ask them now if I tried. They will come to me later." His dark gaze slid to Thorin's face, then over his chest and arms. After a moment he continued, more hesitant, "You said you were injured, once?"

Thorin touched his chest, stroking the cloth over the edge of the long jagged scar that stretched across his skin. "A few here and there, but the worst was by the Defiler, years and years ago." He observed Bilbo carefully, not drawing attention to how Bilbo froze up at the mention of Azog. "Dwalin and I had joined a yearly hunt we used to lead in the Greenwood. The Defiler ambushed us with several of his commanders. I killed three of them at least, crippling his support, and in his rage he caught me across the chest with a great axe. It nearly killed me, as I did not receive healing until I reached Erebor. The old wound aches sometimes still, and it left a terrible scar." He caught an expression of despair and anxiety on Bilbo's face, gone next time he blinked, and a moment later Bilbo lifted a hand, his small fingers halting just before they touched Thorin's chest.

"So we match, in a manner," Bilbo murmured, almost too quiet to be heard, before his gaze darkened and dropped, his hand falling to his side. "He left his mark on too many."

"Yet we carry on despite the weight of it," Thorin replied quietly, catching Bilbo's surprise as he looked up. "He did not defeat either of us. Instead we became his downfall, together."

Thorin remembered suddenly the look on Bilbo's face long ago, when Azog had fallen dead and Bilbo had crumpled with grief -- at his dead master, at a life lost, at the blood on his hands; Thorin had never been able to tell. Now he braced himself, watching Bilbo's small, heart-shaped face, but he was surprised yet again.

A slow smile spread over Bilbo's lips, warming his features and bringing out the flickering glow of the lights in his eyes. His smile was both solemn and relieved. "You and I did, yes, and here we are indeed. Carrying on."

Thorin's gaze softened, and his lips quirked. "Wouldn't that just piss him off?"

"Oh, it would," Bilbo responded, his eyes widening at the mild curse, before he laughed. "Something fierce to be sure." He grinned up at Thorin, who could not help but smile back.

To watch Bilbo like this, standing tall looking every inch a normal Hobbit, with his attention completely on Thorin, was addicting in a way Thorin did not want to examine. "What about a cup of tea? They should have stocked your room with a full set," Thorin said after a moment. Bilbo gaped at him, his mouth falling open.

"There's a tea set? Yes, please, I need some right this moment. Come now, Thorin, show me where it is," he gushed, tugging Thorin's arm and pulling him back to the garden door. Thorin followed, bemused, watching Bilbo's curls bounce against his neck as he turned his head to survey the room.

He coughed over a laugh, catching the noise as Bilbo narrowed his eyes back at him. "Here," he demurred, walking over to a cabinet, opening to reveal a silver tea set. He picked up the tray and went to set it on the table, watching Bilbo out of the corner of his eye as he found the kettle and went to fill it.

When Thorin returned, Bilbo was sitting on the couch, his jacket laid over Thorin's cloak, holding one of the silver cups in his hands. None of the cups had handles, and the teapot itself was low and wide with the spout to a right degree of the handle, a widened knob. The set was decorated with etched leaves and flowers with long petals. Thorin had chosen the set himself, not that he could name the flowers pictured, but he thought Bilbo would like it.

"This is nothing like any tea set I ever owned before," Bilbo marveled. Thorin stopped to hang the kettle over the fire pit, picking up one of the tea tins from the cabinet and sitting down beside Bilbo again.

"What do your tea sets usually look like?" Thorin asked, setting the tin down, and Bilbo smiled in memory. His fingers rose to stroke the key on his chest, and Thorin followed the movement greedily.

"My mother preferred Westfarthing, while my father liked large stoneware mugs by the local potters. We had at least three tea sets for polite company, four for family, and two that we used every day for ourselves. Almost all of them had flower or leaf motifs, and when I was a youth, I had my own small set which had mushrooms and woodland animals painted on the sides." He set the cup down and picked up the tin curiously, reaching up to cover a yawn. "What is this?"

"One of the more popular teas from Dale. I don't really drink tea, so I just ordered what they thought was best." Thorin's voice dropped into a grumble at the amusement in Bilbo's mien when he looked up.

"That was very thoughtful of you, Thorin. Thank you," Bilbo praised with a small, shy smile, and Thorin cleared his throat and looked away.

He listened as Bilbo opened the tin and inhaled, turning his head as Bilbo let out a pleased exclamation. "It's chamomile! Ah, that will be perfect for such a late hour." He beamed at Thorin and opened the top of the teapot, where a mesh metal basket lay inside, which enamored Bilbo for another minute.

"It holds the tea leaves! I've never seen anything like this! Mother always kept strainers with her sets, the ones you hold over your cup, but this is unlike those completely. Dwarves really are ingenious," Bilbo sighed, tapping some of the tea leaves into the mesh basket, just in time for the kettle to sing.

Thorin stood and went to fetch it from the fire, cursing when the heat licked his fingers, and he leaned down to pour the steaming water over the tea leaves until the pot was full. Bilbo replaced the lid, and Thorin left the kettle by the fireplace, returning to Bilbo's side.

The intimacy of the moment struck Thorin then, and he watched Bilbo out of the corner of his eye. Bilbo was watching the steam rising up from the spout of the tea pot, a small smile on his face, looking tired as he had for the past several hours, but Thorin saw the contentment in his expression. Bilbo glanced up at Thorin then, his smile widening.

"I'm afraid all they left for you to use was sugar," Thorin blurted, and Bilbo raised his eyebrows in question. He gestured to the tea, trying to recall how the drink was usually served, and Bilbo laughed, the soft noise falling over Thorin's ears like bells.

"I drink mine with sugar and lemon. My mother always preferred cream, but I took after my father in that manner. It's fine, Thorin, a simple cup like this is wondrous." Bilbo seemed more relaxed now, perhaps because he was away from the crowds of the feast, perhaps because he trusted Thorin in some manner.

Thorin did not respond for a time, simply watching him, until Bilbo's face began to flush.

"What?" the Hobbit asked, his lips drawing down in a frown.

Thorin's mouth twitched, and he covered it with his fingers, sliding them down his beard and leaning back. "I am glad to see you well like this. Fussing over tea and scolding me. I think you would have tried it, back in the camp, had you been yourself then. Your bravery then... your worth was proven to me in that instant, but your character had yet to be revealed. I am glad to know you like this, just as I was glad to know you when we met."

Bilbo's cheeks and ears were darkening with rosy red again, but he did not look away from Thorin, his dark eyes bright as the firelight flickered against them. "I was not myself then. I was me, but... I could not be myself, could not be normal then. You gave me that chance," he said, hushed, and his eyes misted until he looked down, reaching up to grip Thorin's key. "I truly cannot repay you for what you did for me then, Thorin. Giving you your father's ring is only a small part of what I owe you."

Thorin followed his gaze down to his hand, where the Ring of Power shone blue on his finger. "Bilbo," he murmured, but Bilbo shook his head quickly.

"No, I'm not finished. I think you were right, you know, in your letter. That we really do have a special bond." Bilbo faltered on the word, and Thorin's entire world hinged on that catch in his voice. "You are special to me. Not just because of what you did for me... but because of this. Because we can speak so easily, in letter and in person. I was worried... that we would be awkward with each other despite our letters, but I am relieved that that is not the case."

Bilbo looked up at Thorin then with a smile, reaching out and laying his fingers on Thorin's arm, feather light, as if worried that his touch would be mistaken for anything more than that of friendship. Thorin reached down to grip his fingers gently, and Bilbo's smile widened, before he ducked his head.

"Oh, but that was embarrassing," the Hobbit muttered, and Thorin laughed quietly, squeezing Bilbo's hand.

"At least let me say that I feel the same, Bilbo, and that you need not worry. It relieves me too," he admitted, thinking of the long nights he spent tossing and turning before Bilbo arrived. Bilbo peeked up at him, and his shyness endeared Thorin.

"Good," Bilbo responded quietly, gripping Thorin's arm for a moment before withdrawing, going to pour them both a cup of tea with shaking fingers. 

Thorin watched him, his skin tingling where Bilbo's hand had lingered, and accepted his cup without anything else in the tea. He watched Bilbo spoon sugar into his cup and snorted.

"Hobbits really do have terrible sweet tooths, don't you?" he commented, and Bilbo huffed at him as he sat back with his cup, blowing on the steam.

"How can we not? Baking is our greatest triumph. You'll be sorry when I bake up some strawberry tarts and refuse to share them with you," Bilbo sniffed, though his lips twitched when Thorin rolled his eyes.

"Speaking of which, if you wish to use the kitchens while you are here for your own cooking, that is perfectly fine. The royal kitchens are free for anybody in the palace to use," Thorin remarked, and Bilbo looked briefly delighted.

"I shall remember that, then," he murmured, grinning up at Thorin. Then he sipped his tea and sighed deeply, sinking back in the cushions and looking up at the vaulted ceiling for a few moments. The silence between them was comfortable, one Thorin did not feel like breaking, and he was surprised when Bilbo sat up and looked at him, his gaze half-lidded with sleepy intent.

"I'm glad to see you again, Thorin," Bilbo said quietly. "You look happier here, and better for it, now that you are home."

Thorin stared at him, unable to breathe for a moment, before he sighed out shakily. "Thank you," he murmured, looking down into his tea as Bilbo turned his gaze back to the fire, aware that his face was warm and that his heart was beating loudly.

He was _obsessed._ Every little notion, every little movement of Bilbo's affected him in dangerous ways. He would have to be careful while Bilbo stayed in his kingdom, lest he grow too obvious in his interest. It was nothing as Frerin and Dwalin liked to insinuate, but Thorin _cared_ for Bilbo, in such a strange manner despite seeing him in person for only a week months ago.

Thorin felt as Bilbo did, that they knew each other as if they had been speaking face to face all this time. He had been anxious, these past few weeks, that Bilbo would not like him, that Bilbo would see through his obsession and reject him, but here Bilbo sat, happy to sit with him, sharing tea of all things.

It was nothing Thorin had ever experienced before, yet he enjoyed every moment of Bilbo's company.

After a time Thorin set his empty cup down, leaning back to watch the fire crackle and burn. Beside him, Bilbo remained quiet, and together they enjoyed the silence. Thorin turned their conversation over in his mind, thinking of other topics he could have discussed with Bilbo, other ways he could have worded his responses, but he was satisfied with the evening. After a second cup of tea, Bilbo set his cup down as well, and then did not move again.

Moments stretched in Thorin's mind as he thought, and he blinked after a while, realizing that the fire was now little more than embers, and that there was a soft weight against his arm. He looked down to find dusky blond curls resting against his shoulder, his heart skipping a beat to realize that Bilbo was sleeping against him.

Thorin did not know what to do.

After a few moments, Thorin turned slowly, careful in his movements, but somehow he did not disturb Bilbo. He slid his hands under Bilbo's body and lifted him, briefly stunned at how light he was, and stood, carrying Bilbo into the bedroom and laying him on the bed. Bilbo sighed as his head hit the pillow, turning his face toward Thorin's hand, but he did not wake.

Thorin pulled one of the blankets over Bilbo, gazing down at his sleeping face for a long moment. Bilbo looked peaceful in slumber, the soft lines of his face relaxed beneath his curls. Thorin smiled to himself then silently left the bedroom, tending the fire back to life and gathering his belongings, then slipping out the door. He made sure to lock the door before he left, not wanting anyone to bother Bilbo on his first night in Erebor.

When he reached his own rooms, Thorin fell into bed and did not sleep for a long time, thinking of Bilbo trusting him enough to sleep against his side.

~

Bilbo woke slowly, the kind of lazy morning he had not enjoyed in a long time. His body ached, such that Bilbo knew he had pushed himself too hard yesterday. He had not slept nearly long enough, exhaustion creeping at the edges of his thoughts, but he felt rested enough. He stretched slowly and opened his eyes halfway, staring hazily up at the ceiling. For a few moments, he sleepily admired the beautiful mosaic decorating the ceiling, forming a night sky with seven stars rising over a deep pool of water. He tried to remember if he had seen it before.

When he sat up, Bilbo realized that he was in his new room, tucked underneath a heavy woolen blanket that had worked wonders to ward off the chill of the caves outside. Hadn't he been talking to Thorin? How had he managed to get to bed?

He must have stumbled to bed at some point. He could recall nothing past a lovely cup of tea and Thorin's deep voice talking long into the night.

A smile found its way to Bilbo's face as he remembered talking with Thorin, sitting for what must have been hours, simply enjoying each other's company. Hardly anybody else in the world made him feel safe as Thorin did; it was no different than that first week in each other's company, when Bilbo slept with ease in Thorin's tent.

Bilbo sat up straight then, realizing what had happened, warmth spilling across his cheeks. He must have fallen asleep with Thorin there -- oh, no, what would Thorin think?

After a moment of acute embarrassment, Bilbo rubbed at his face and climbed out of the great bed, which thankfully sat low enough to the ground that he did not have much trouble. He looked around for his pack and did not see it, then realized that the wardrobe door was open. Inside hung his clothes, along with some simple shirts and sweaters that must have been based off the clothes the Dwarves had crafted for the Hobbits back in Moria, yet of much finer cloth.

He would have to scold Thorin for that after thanking him. Again.

Bilbo pulled down a few articles of clothing and wandered into the bath to wash his face, starting in surprise. The room was as expansive as the others, a great bath built into the floor with raised edges and decorated in a similar motif to the bedroom ceiling, a small shelf filled with various bathing products. There sat a card on the sink, and Bilbo picked it up, curious.

_For our valued friend. If you prefer a particular scent, let the servants know. --Dís_

"Oh," Bilbo said to himself, mystified. He glanced back at the wardrobe, raising his eyebrows. "Perhaps it wasn't Thorin after all." He smiled to himself and took a few minutes to scent the different bottles, which were labeled in simple Khuzdul glyphs, ones that he remembered from when Thorin taught him.

When he opened the last, Bilbo's breath caught as he inhaled Thorin's scent, the same as the soap Thorin had gifted him in Moria. Perhaps it was a popular scent, or perhaps Thorin had told Dís about the gift.

Whichever the case, Bilbo knew his preference already.

After his morning ablutions, with the thought that he should take a proper bath that evening, Bilbo dressed in the clothes provided and went to find his jacket, smoothing it down of any lint before pulling it on. He found it very relaxing to sit on the chair provided in his bedroom and comb out the hair on his feet and shins, appreciating the leisure he could not have enjoyed before.

Now all he needed was his scarf, to hide the scars on his neck, and Bilbo would be ready to face Erebor. 

He heard a knock then, followed closely by quick-paced taps, that bought a smile to his face. Pulling his scarf into its customary knot, Bilbo crossed the room to his door, unlocking it before pulling it open, revealing his three cousins who were already dressed and groomed for the day. He eyed them warily, remembering distinctly how much alcohol they had imbibed, but none of the three boys showed any signs of a hangover.

"Bilbo," Rory whined, giving him the sad eyes of a child who had been forced to wait for sweets, "we're _hungry._ " Somehow Otho and Drogo managed the exact same expression, making Bilbo roll his eyes at their dramatics.

"Yes, yes, let us go to breakfast. Er, where are we supposed to go, anyway?" he faltered, befuddled, but was saved by Dís' melodious voice interrupting them. All four Hobbits turned to find Dís standing a few feet away.

"If you follow me, guests of my family, I will show you to the dining hall. It is separate from the hall of feasts where we held your celebration dinner. Come," Dís said with a smile, turning to walk away, and Bilbo closed his door before following, his cousins trailing behind with whispered conversation that Bilbo mostly ignored.

They followed Dís downstairs one level, to a room much smaller than the dining hall the night before but no less grand in decoration, with a long table covered in breakfast foodstuffs. Thorin and his family were already gathered at the table, talking quietly. Bilbo let his cousins into the room first, following behind them and looking up, incidentally meeting Thorin's gaze.

Thorin looked as tired as Bilbo felt, yet he still managed to impress Bilbo with his regal clothing in blue and grey, his crown resting at his temple. They stared at each other for a moment, as Bilbo recalled their long conversation and felt his face warm, _again_ , as always happened in Thorin's company.

They both looked away at the same time, to find their families watching them with far too much curiosity.

Bilbo hurried to sit at the table, conveniently sitting across from Thorin, who nodded to him. "Good morning, Bilbo," Thorin said quietly, his deep voice carrying the memory of a good night to Bilbo, and he could not help but smile back.

"Good morning, Thorin," Bilbo replied, enjoying the way Thorin's eyes crinkled at the edges, smiling where his mouth did not.

He could get used to mornings like this one.


	39. A moment at your side

As life was wont to do, it carried on, yet Bilbo felt changed regardless. 

Breakfast settled into an easy camaraderie, though Bilbo and Thorin mostly remained silent, listening to their families exchange pleasantries. Every so often, Bilbo would glance at Thorin, only to find Thorin watching him in the same distracted way. Realizing that he could stare if he wanted, Bilbo let himself study Thorin, from the fine clothes he was wearing for the day, to the glimmer of the jewel in his crown against his dark hair.

It was odd, though, knowing that Thorin was studying him in the same manner.

After breakfast Bilbo and his cousins were greeted by a tall Dwarrowdam with a long green scarf tied over her thick dark hair, who said she had come to escort them. The small family was led to a wing of the palace that, as she explained, was staffed by a team of healers that served the King, his family, and other diplomats that worked in the palace.

"Many families have their own private medicinists and doctors, but Master Óin has been the royal family's healer since they were children, being cousins and all," the young Healer told them, after she introduced herself as Sigga. "His grandmother Groár wrote the best healing texts under the mountain, you know."

"So his skill runs in the family. He looked after me after Moria," Bilbo explained to his cousins, who looked suspicious enough to prompt the words. "I believe he was there when we were rescued. You might remember him, Rory."

"That time was a bit of a blur," Rory said offhandedly, but his gaze had darkened. Otho leaned over without looking and mussed his curls, causing Rory to squawk, and the two began grappling.

"Boys!" Bilbo called in exasperation when he looked back, and they immediately disengaged from each other and adopted innocent expressions. Sigga looked amused, while Bilbo just sighed. Drogo was grinning, as if he had never started identical tussles in the past.

The four Hobbits followed Sigga into a large hall arranged much like the healer's camp from Moria, but with many rooms for patients and physicians alike. Healers milled about, seeing to patients or mixing medicines, and the soft murmur of voices was soothing. "Oh, we're right on time! Healer Óin?" she called to a tall grey-haired Dwarf at the end of the hall, standing with two other Dwarves in healer greens, and the Dwarf turned with a wide smile.

"Ah, Healer Sigga! My thanks for escorting Master Baggins here," Óin said cheerfully, and Bilbo smiled upon seeing him. His cousins followed him, looking around with interest, as they stopped before Óin. "Good, good. Now, off with your shirts, all of you." 

His smile was met with Otho and Drogo stepping in front of Bilbo and Rory, expressions darkened with fury, pushing Bilbo and Rory back simultaneously, while Rory himself looked outraged. "We sure as hell won't!" Drogo snapped, and Óin and the other healers blinked in shock. "Who do you think you are?"

"Bilbo, let's go back to the room, neither of you have to do this," Otho said, protective as he held Rory back. Rory's face had gone white. Bilbo stared at the three of them in confusion, before his expression softened, and he stepped around the boys and gently took Drogo and Otho's hands, lowering them.

"They're just healers," he said, ducking his head. "I told you Óin looked after me. I trust him, and you can, too. But if any of you are uncomfortable, you could leave and wait outside. There's no shame in that." Bilbo met Drogo's eyes, until he looked down, face reddening, then held Otho's gaze. Otho stared back at him, stiff with tension, before nodding once and dropping his fist. Behind his shoulder, Rory had averted his gaze, but his dark eyes flitted up to glance beyond Bilbo at the healers.

"Are you sure?" Rory asked, voice hushed, and Bilbo reassured him with a nod.

"Do you want to leave?" Bilbo asked, keeping his gaze on Rory's face. Rory reluctantly looked to Bilbo and finally shook his head no.

"If Healer Sigga will look after me," Rory replied, a bit louder, and the kind-eyed Dwarrowdam looked over at them with a curious smile.

"It would be my pleasure, Master Brandybuck. Come this way," Sigga said, and Rory squared his shoulders and followed her to one of the rooms. Drogo and Otho exchanged a long glance, then went wordlessly to the other two Healers, and Bilbo sighed and went through the doorway where Óin was standing.

"Sorry about that," he murmured to Óin as the older Dwarf shut the door.

"No worries, laddie, Healer Sigga is the best of the whole lot here, and my former apprentice besides. I apprenticed to her mother myself," Óin replied. "Off with that shirt now!"

Bilbo relaxed to know that Sigga would take care of Rory, though he kept an ear out for any of his cousins' voices. "Yes, yes, alright," he grudgingly agreed, beginning to unbutton and shrug off his clothes.

"Very good," Óin said approvingly, tapping Bilbo's belly, which had blossomed into something much rounder and softer than half a year ago. "Still too thin for my tastes, but now that you've been eating decently, there's no reason not to visit the kitchens as much as you like. Bofur's taken good care of you, aye?" He turned Bilbo around to look at the scars on his back, humming to himself.

"Oh, yes, of course," Bilbo agreed with a nod, glancing down at his stomach which still held faint scars in Azog's name, but much softer now, less stiff within his skin. All over his body, from his neck to his feet, the old scars remained visible, but no longer did they haunt Bilbo every time he looked upon his own body. Óin's salve had given him hope, months ago, that he could be normal again, and he was finally seeing the truth of the fact. If he ever did meet someone and settle down, he might, one day... but that was a thought Bilbo brushed away, refocusing on Óin.

"I used your ointment, you know, every day, and mixed it up again when I ran out. Mine isn't as good as yours, I'm afraid, but it still... it still has worked wonders." Bilbo sighed slowly, running his fingers over his wrists, then looked over his shoulder. "Thank you for them."

Óin watched him with keen eyes, but he only nodded. "I've got some more somewhere if you're needing some, and a few more ointments besides if you should like to try something else. I'm glad it helped, laddie," he smiled, letting Bilbo face him again. "You've got time now to take care of yourself, and I expect good results, you hear? Now, have you any ailments? Any problems you'd like to share?"

Grateful for Óin's kindness, Bilbo thought of his conversation with Thorin and took a deep breath, lowering his voice. "Yes. This is more for me and my cousin Rory, the brown-haired Hobbit with me, but I wanted your advice. I sometimes have spells where my knees and joints grow weak, and they begin to shake. I have it worse than Rory, but I've noticed that he sometimes needs to sit for a while. Would there be anything that could be done for that? It's... leftover from our time without sunlight or proper food, in the mountains."

Óin stroked his long, curling mustache, his head tilted toward Bilbo as he listened. "Well, lad, you could try the medicinal baths. There's a bathhouse down on Vustel-nalil that I recommend to my patients. I can send you a referral if you like. Given it's a medic's house, most of the rooms are private for healing, but you should balance it with regular soaks in the public houses. Go tonight after supper. 'Tis best to do it before bed."

Bilbo blinked in surprise, bemused that Thorin's premonition about Óin's advice had proven true, and a bit thrown by the Khuzdul. He knew better than to ask what it meant, though. "We could try that. Thank you, Healer Óin."

Óin gave him a small bag containing more salves and ointments with a wink, and after looking over Bilbo and declaring him fit as can be, Bilbo redressed and left the room, finding Drogo and Otho waiting for him down the hall. Drogo was pacing as he watched Rory's door, and Bilbo smiled when he meet Otho's anxious gaze, stopping at his shoulder.

He was not unaware of how much his cousins worried for him, and he was glad that they looked after Rory, too, for all that both he and Rory were older. "What did the healers say?" he asked Otho, who shrugged at him, but the pinched expression in his eyes relaxed.

"Fit as a fiddle, so they say. They told Drogo he'd lost so much weight, though, since he used to be... well," Otho trailed off, sharing a look with Bilbo. Drogo had once been quite proud as a Hobbit, with girth that could rival any of these Dwarves, but Shirefall had changed that. "Said he needed to eat a better variety of food after he told them how we'd eaten on the journey up here. Not like we could help that," Otho shrugged, following Bilbo's frown to watch Drogo pace. 

"Kíli's brother said we could visit the kitchens whenever we wanted, though, and Kíli showed us a few shortcuts. I'm looking forward to proper meals again, myself... It's just not right, not having second breakfast." Otho frowned; Bilbo was eerily reminded of Longo Baggins, and his frown over Drogo's health melted a bit with a twitch of his lips. Otho glanced at him and scowled. "What?"

"Nothing," Bilbo replied with a small smile, turning his head back to Drogo when Rory's door opened. Healer Sigga walked out, smiling at them as she passed, and Rory followed a step later, his eyes cast downward, carrying a small bag like Bilbo. Otho turned his glare from Bilbo to Rory, the sour expression fading as Rory joined them, Drogo swinging his arm around Rory's shoulders.

"Alright, there?" Bilbo asked quietly, and finally Rory met his gaze and smiled, a shadow of his usual cheer. Resignation warred with disgruntlement, before a sigh escaped his cousin as acceptance won.

"Nothing I didn't figure already," Rory replied, then grunted when Drogo leaned against his side. "Get off," he complained, shoving at Drogo, but the movement was half-hearted. Otho joined on Rory's other side, and Bilbo followed the three of them as they left the hospital ward, content as his Baggins cousins pestered Rory into smiling.

Now he had the time to look after them. He couldn't before, traveling for months as they had, but here he could relax; he could take the time to see to each of his cousins' needs and wants, to give them the healing they deserved. He would take care of himself, too; he had learned that lesson already.

Bofur would drop by after lunch, to take Bilbo on a tour of the city, and later that afternoon he would meet with Dís to go over their contracts. They had the rest of the morning free; Thorin had court most of the day, else Bilbo would go to see him, but they would see each other for supper. Until then, though...

"Boys," Bilbo called, grinning as Otho, Drogo, and Rory looked back at him in tandem. "What do you say to second breakfast?"

His cousins' faces lit up, and Bilbo laughed as they whooped and danced about, catching the attention of the Dwarves in the hall. Their energy proved too exciting, though, when Otho twirled around and bumped into a red-haired Dwarf walking past.

"Er, sorry," Otho apologized, rubbing at the back of his head sheepishly, while Bilbo hurried forward. The red-haired Dwarf faced him, his handsome features solemn, before he cracked a grin and twisted his hand, producing Otho's coin purse, which must had fallen in the scuffle.

"No worries, but keep an eye on that, would you? Easy for pick-pockets." The Dwarf caught Bilbo's eye and winked, and something in his mien was familiar; he had seen that face before, but where? Perhaps in Moria? The Dwarf walked away, whistling cheerfully, before Bilbo could ask, and he sighed and looked at Otho, who was staring at his pouch in bewilderment.

"Are you alright, Otho?" Bilbo asked, gently ushering his cousins along again, and Otho scoffed, tossing his dark curls.

"I'm fine, Bilbo, don't fuss over me," he replied, sniffing, but then Otho pressed his shoulder to Bilbo's arm, and Bilbo relaxed, listening as his cousins began chatting again.

He did wonder about that red-haired Dwarf, though. He remembered most of the soldiers he had worked beside in Moria, but for some reason he could not place this one stranger, even with his particular hair-style, separated into three sections.

Well, if he saw the stranger again, he would simply have to ask. Until then, Bilbo was more concerned with second breakfast.

~

Bilbo's distraction carried him through Bofur's appearance and most of the informal tour of Erebor with Bifur and Boro. His family seemed to sense his mood and mostly left him to wander behind them, while Bifur and Boro played the charming guides to the boys, wide-eyed and chattering as they were. Bofur walked at Bilbo's side, keeping him company, but his friend did not try to grab Bilbo's attention if he happened to daze out thinking of other things.

Such as Thorin, who had lingered on Bilbo's mind all day.

He felt changed for meeting him, finally. Yet still life continued, there was breakfast and family, duties and appointments, but Bilbo existed separately from them, as if...

As if meeting Thorin was his sole reason for coming to Erebor. As if nothing else now mattered; he would fulfill his duties and responsibilities, but his focus remained on Thorin and little else. When he saw the gleaming lanterns on the streets, he thought of their glow from his balcony, of the garden Thorin had made for them. When he noticed beads or braids in other Dwarves' hair and beards, he found himself comparing them to Thorin's own decorations.

Blast it, he was _distracted_ beyond measure, and he could hardly tear himself from these wild thoughts that were wholly, completely inappropriate.

Thankfully, he soon had something to distract himself from his distraction: his meeting with Princess Dís about his duties whilst he would stay in Erebor.

The tour of Erebor was cut short by the advent of lunch. The glance into the Dwarven city was enough to entertain the small family, and Bilbo longed to walk its halls at leisure when he could help paying proper attention. He had time enough, at least.

Bofur took his cousins off his hands easily enough, grinning at Bilbo's hint of worry and clasping his shoulder. "I'm taking them down to see the yards where the princes usually train. The princess'll keep you busy all afternoon, most like, so don't worry about snacks. I've got it covered, Bilbo." Bilbo let them go with a small sigh; even in this safe, if strange place, he did not like being apart from his family; nor did they, for Bilbo caught glances from all three of them, Drogo and Otho the most frequent, as they trailed after Bofur.

A charming Dwarrowdam appeared at his shoulder then, with a gentle smile and skin the dusky brown of a doe's eyes, introducing herself as Nyssa, Dís' mediator. "The Princess will see you now," she explained, guiding him from the courtyard to a large office high in the palace, with great windows that looked over the city.

Dís herself was sitting at a large oaken desk, which was covered in a great number of scrolls, books, and sheaves of paper. She looked up with a smile when Bilbo entered with Nyssa, rising and walking to join him, reaching out to clasp his hands. "Bilbo, did you have a good morning? I hope you have enjoyed Erebor's hospitality."

Bilbo smiled at her, as Nyssa gathered a stack of papers and laid them out on the table, with a few long ink pens and a bunch of envelops bound with bright yellow ribbon. He squeezed Dís' hands and followed her gesture to the table, sitting in front of the papers with a curious glance at them. "Yes, and I cannot thank you enough. Everything has been lovely."

"Very good." Dís smiled at him warmly, sitting across from him and glancing up at Nyssa, who had paused at her shoulder. "Thank you, Nyssa. Are you going over to the Guild now?" Dís asked the Dwarrowdam, who nodded serenely.

"Yes, my lady. Guildmaster Frera of the leather workers requested a meeting this morning. I will return after I speak with her," Nyssa murmured, bowing to the Princess before leaving. Dís nodded and focused her attention on Bilbo, her smile slipping into a more formal, serious expression that reminded Bilbo of his Baggins relatives, particularly his father during business lessons.

"Let's have a look at those contracts, shall we? I have a few more I'd like you to read this week, and we can work out the details as we go along," Dís said, and Bilbo agreeably bowed his head over the contracts.

His father had taught him well; Bilbo took care to read the finely printed contracts, noticing where his agreements with Dís by letter were already in place, and nodding at a few other requirements. He had expected no less for the guarantees and was pleased that Dwarven contracts were even more thorough than the drollest of Hobbit legal matters. He signed three of the contracts after reading through them and spent at least another hour working on a fourth, negotiating with Dís until both of them were content with the plans.

"I think that will do nicely. I will send those off to the ledgers this afternoon," Dís sighed, setting the revised contract aside to be rewritten for a final copy. She glanced at the closed door to the office, where Bilbo saw a shadow hovering, smiling to herself, and took the bundle of envelopes and scrolls, passing them to Bilbo. "Now, these came for you in the past weeks while you were traveling with my brother, as well as a few for your cousins. It looks like the raven tower we built for Khazad-dûm has plenty of work with your family in the Vale," Dís told Bilbo, who took the letters, his hands shaking slightly as he unbound the yellow ribbon (Hobbit-made, and he recognized Mirabella Brandybuck's signature color already).

"Thank you," Bilbo murmured. Dís gave him some space, taking Erebor's copies of the signed contracts back to her desk, and Bilbo stroked his fingers over the papers with his name scrawled in familiar script. He had hoped for letters, for some sign that his kin had reached the Vale, but he had not thought that so many would be sent.

First he opened the one with the Brandybuck emblem pressed into the sealing wax, smiling to see his Aunt Mirabella's handwriting.

> _
> 
> My dear Bilbo,  
> I hope this letter finds you well, and that you and my dear son are safe in Erebor when you read it. It is my pleasure to tell you that Gorbadoc and I have arrived at the Vale with your cousins, alongside Gaffer Gamgee, your gardener Holman Greenhand, and the rest of the Bagginses and Brandybucks. Our Took kin will wait until the last of the families have left the Shire, but they will follow.
> 
> The Vale is beautiful, my dear nephew. Your friend Beorn is very tall! But for a man of the Tall Folk, he is kind with the children and has helped us in great ways. Our first few nights, we stayed in Bag-End, like most everyone who has come here. (I hope you call it that again; it looks so much like dear Bella's home!) There are already roads and homes being built, so nobody stays in Bag-End for very long. We've all left little gifts, though, and I go back when I can to unpack your things for you.
> 
> I have so much to tell you, my dear Bilbo. The farmers and gaffers have been working the fields, and so much has grown already! It's just like the Shire before, and Beorn has been more than kind with his supplies. Even with dozens of hobbits streaming into the valley every week, his supplies never run low! I've no idea how he does it, but I am quite thankful to Mister Beorn.
> 
> The nights are warm and there is little rain, so some of us have taken to camping further in the valley. I've been eyeing a hill up at the northern end of the vale. It has a lovely view of the mountains to the east and I should like to build our smial there. Your uncle Gordy would prefer to be closer to the river, but we aren't Brandybucks for nothing! Beorn says it hardly swells during rainy times, and it isn't as deep as the Brandywine was. We shouldn't need to live so close to it, this time.
> 
> I've written a list of supplies I think that we should need. Mistress Marjun and her band of dwarves are industrious to the last hour, and we have our wealth in stone and wood for creating homes and furniture. Yet I've found that a few more things would go very much appreciated by the families here, if you can look into sending something our way. (and my! I never realized how proficient lady dwarves are! I should like to meet more dwarves like Mistress Marjun.)
> 
> I have written a separate letter for Rorimac, so please give it to him. I should like a response from you both! I want to know every detail of how Rorimac behaved on your journey, and I should like to hear about the adventures you faced. I've also attached letters from your Aunt Linda for young Otho and Drogo, and a few more for you from Primula and some of your friends here. 
> 
> I am very proud of you, my dear nephew. Your mother would be proud of you, too, for what you've done. We miss you very much. Write to us soon.
> 
> Love,  
> Mirabella Brandybuck née Took
> 
> _

Bilbo breathed in slowly, touching his fingers to his lips in a poor attempt to stop his smile from stretching across his entire face. As he had hoped; as he had dreamed, his kin were finding peace again. Rory would be overjoyed to hear from his family, just as Bilbo was. He pulled a small handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his eyes, setting the letter and its attachments aside. They felt too personal; he would prefer to read them later, and he would like to review the list alongside the new contracts, to see if anything coincided.

"Good news, I hope?" Dís asked, her voice carrying across the office with a touch of worry, and Bilbo laughed, his breath catching wetly.

"Very good. My aunts arrived at the Vale safely with my cousins, and everything seems to be going very well. I imagine most of these letters contain requests alongside good wishes, so we might end up working out some additional contracts," Bilbo said, and the keen look on Dís' face softened into a smile.

"I am glad to hear it. Would you like a snack, Bilbo? I'll call for something." She stood smoothly and went to the door, disappearing into the hallway. Bilbo heard her speaking to someone as the door closed, but he did not hear the words and went back to his letters.

He set the ones addressed to his cousins aside and leafed through the others written to him, seeing one from the Gamgees (though, with a pang of disappointment, he did not see one from Holman). He found the letter from Linda Baggins, as well as a few from names he recognized but did not know personally, though he did pause when he found a small envelope with a drawing of a flower on it and Bilbo's name written in carefully tidy letters. 

Instead of reading the letters from his family or the farmers working in the Vale, Bilbo selected the letter from an unknown child, possibly one of his many cousins, but hopefully from one of the orphans sheltered by the Tooks. His heart beating faster, he pulled out the folded paper, and a pressed violet fell out onto his lap. It was paper-thin and soft, and he gently tucked it back into the envelope, before reading the letter, written in the same childish script as on the envelope. The letter was carefully written as if someone older had guided the small hand at times, but the words fell into Bilbo's heart with joy all the same.

> _
> 
> Dear Bilbo Baggins,  
> My name is May Grubb. Today I am in the Vale and it is pretty here and there are many flowers.
> 
> I saw a bear yesterday. He was very big. He called me a bunny and I ran away and hid under the bed. Aunt Marigold told me to say sorry so I said I was sorry and he gave me a honey candy. Auntie said it had lemon in it and that your daddy used to make them for tea. The candy was good.
> 
> The mountains were scary but we met a lady named Aina and she is very nice. She has a beard and pretty braids with lots of beads. She let me put a flower in her hair. Auntie and cousin Rufus and I like her very much.
> 
> I pressed a flower for you and I hope you like it. I miss you and I love you.
> 
> Yours truly,  
> May Grubb
> 
> _

"Oh, May," Bilbo whispered, beaming against the tears welling in his eyes. How he had worried for her and the quiet children he had left behind! How it had torn him to leave them, to force them back into the mountains that had tormented them! But here he had proof, true evidence that at least one of those children was safe, that the Vale was the right place for them, and that they were _healing_ as they could not in the Shire. "I'm glad you found your flowers," he murmured, setting the letter down and pressing the handkerchief to his eyes.

"Bilbo?" asked a deep, familiar voice, worried and too close for Bilbo's nerves. He jumped and twisted around, his heart in his throat, and made a noise upon seeing Thorin of all people standing there, holding a tray and appearing ready to throw it across the room, his deep blue eyes fastened anxiously to Bilbo's wet cheeks.

Bilbo waved a hand, inhaling and turning his face into his elbow to hide his tears. "Thorin! You surprised me," he gasped, hearing a clatter, and a moment later Thorin was taking his hands, gently pulling them from his face.

"Bilbo, what is wrong? Did something happen?" Thorin worried, but Bilbo sat up and pushed Thorin back to give himself space, turning his hands around to catch Thorin's fingers and squeezing them. The movement felt natural, and bravery had him lifting his head to meet Thorin's eyes, thought he felt embarrassed for letting Thorin see him crying.

"No, no, nothing's wrong! I'm happy, truly," he explained, gesturing feebly to the letter. "I read a sweet letter, is all, and it made me very happy. I'm fine, I promise." He wiped at his face and took a deep, shuddering breath, straightening and giving Thorin a smile.

Thorin hovered before him, his worried gaze straying between the letter and Bilbo's face, but eventually he accepted Bilbo's reassurances and relaxed enough to sit in Dís' empty chair. "My apologies, seeing you in such a state... alarmed me," he muttered, looking away and rubbing at the back of his neck.

Bilbo watched him with a small, fond smile, smoothing his handkerchief and tucking it away. After a moment of thought, he offered May's letter to Thorin, his cheeks warming slightly to share such an intimate part of his life. "This is from one of the children I used to look after in the Shire. She was... well, she was a slave just as I was, and she was still recovering when I left. I'm very relieved by her letter."

Thorin, frowning at the mention of Bilbo's former slavery, took the letter with gentle hands, unfolding it and reading the childish script. Bilbo watched Thorin's face, how his gaze softened at different parts. He could tell Thorin was not as touched by the letter as he was, but Thorin's smile when he reached the end of the letter was enough for him. After tucking the letter back into its envelope, Bilbo looked over at the platter Thorin had set down, blinking to see a tea arrangement with a plate of pastries and a bowl of sweets.

"You brought me tea?" he questioned, glancing up at Thorin, who turned an interesting color.

"I thought you might be hungry, and since you were done with your meeting..." Thorin seemed to catch his words, twitching, while Bilbo's chest blossomed with warmth and amusement.

During his meeting with Dís, he had noticed her glancing at the door every so often, and when he had followed her gaze, he had seen a shadow lingering, waiting beyond. Dís had always distracted him from the figure, likely an attendant or courtier with business, or simply a guard. No one ever knocked, though, so Bilbo had hardly thought about it -- until now.

"So you were the one hiding at the door during our meeting," Bilbo said, cheerful now, and Thorin's cheeks colored to an even more interesting shade. "Didn't you have court this afternoon?"

"We finished early," Thorin said quickly, picking up the stoneware pot and pouring cups of tea for them both. Bilbo noticed there were only two place settings; he wondered where Dís had gone.

As if reading his mind, Thorin cleared his throat and said, "My sister had to go to the Guild for a late meeting with one of the Guild masters and her Mediator." His expression was sheepish, though, and Bilbo took one of the offered cups, thinking they could both use a moment with their tea. He wondered if Nyssa's meeting had gone sour, or if something else had happened.

He felt a soft pang when he realized the tea was chamomile. Thorin had remembered his favorite.

"How old is Miss Grubb?" Thorin asked after a moment, and Bilbo tilted his head, thinking.

"She must be ten now, I think. A few years younger than my cousin Primula, at least," he replied, smiling fondly. "I'm glad she's doing well. She was... well, she had done poorly after returning to the Shire. She and the other children needed warmth... life, nature and peace and healing. They couldn't find any of that in the Shire as it was. I'm glad the Vale will give the children what they need."

Thorin nodded slowly, his gaze cutting to the letter again consideringly. He was dressed in regal blues again, missing both his crown and the long furred cape that he had been wearing that morning. Bilbo was briefly distracted by the shining beads in the braids at his temples. "She mentioned a Dwarrowdam in her letter. Balin had told me that more and more of our people are migrating to our ancient halls, to rebuild and live where there is prosperity. It is good to see that after the war, life goes on as it should."

"Yes... as it should." Bilbo watched Thorin for a moment, though he quickly averted his gaze when he realized that Thorin was staring right back at him. Instead, Bilbo leaned forward to investigate the tea service, beaming when he realized that the pastries had some sort of savory, meaty filling. He busied himself with the small meal, watching as Thorin did the same.

The snack did wonders for his mood, though he quickly grew distracted by Thorin's presence, the letters and contracts fading to the back of his mind as he watched Thorin eat. The teacup seemed extraordinarily small in Thorin's hands, and Bilbo thought that a good stoneware mug was more suited for them, broad as they were.

"Thank you for bringing me tea," Bilbo said into the quiet, drawing Thorin's attention again. "I haven't tried the sweets yet. What flavor are they?"

"Oh," Thorin said, following Bilbo's gaze to the bowl of candy. He frowned in consternation, his hair falling in his face as he leaned over to look into the bowl. "I took them from downstairs, but I don't actually know what kind they are."

Bilbo eyed him in amusement, though when a chuckle escaped him, Thorin crossed his arms with a cranky expression. "Let us try them, then."

Thorin obligingly set the bowl between them, and the two of them sat together, each picking out a piece of candy and eating it. When the sweet flavor hit his tongue, Bilbo's eyes widened in delight.

"Peppermint! How wonderful," Bilbo admired, wondering when he had last eaten candy. Likely not since before Shirefall. "Do they make these downstairs?"

"They do," Thorin said after a moment, twisting the candy around in his mouth. "When I was a child, my siblings and I used to sneak into the kitchen to steal them. Little did we know then, the cooks would make them in bulk and leave them in certain places just for the royal children. They still keep them in the same places, even though my nephews are grown now."

The image of Thorin, small and sneaking, stuffing candy into his pockets like a thief in the night amused Bilbo, and he ate another candy, his nose crinkling as he smiled up at Thorin. "When I was a lad, my father made honey candies that he would serve to visitors for tea. I used to take them and put them in my tea for a sweet, syrupy treat. I grew out of it, but even as an adult, sometimes I would make the candies and drop one in my tea, especially if I made it with lemon."

Thorin chuckled, glancing at the pile of letters. "They must have been good indeed, for you to hear of them in letter. Perhaps you could make them here, sometime. The kitchens are always stocked with supplies, even from Beorn's realm far away. If you would like assistance, I can make myself available."

For a moment Bilbo could only imagine standing beside Thorin and teaching him how to make sweets, which could be a trying lesson in patience. "Perhaps I will," he demurred, pouring himself another cup of tea and dropping a curl of lemon into it. Thorin had remembered.

He could tell Thorin wanted to ask him questions, and he was rather sure that they were about his copies of the contracts, which were laid out with his letters. Thorin kept glancing at them, his large hands flexing as if he wished to pick them up to read, but he held himself back. His gold rings glinted, and Bilbo was glad to see that Thorin's grandfather's ring sat on his finger with the others, as if it belonged there. He touched his fingers to his pocket where his own ring was safely tucked away, content. Bilbo smiled behind his teacup and waited.

Thorin struggled in silence for a few moments, but eventually he gave in. "Did your meeting go well with my sister?" he asked finally, fingers twitching toward the contracts.

Bilbo leaned over and neatly gathered them up, tucking them into the stack of letters and binding the whole pile with his aunt's ribbon. Thorin frowned but did not stop him. "It went rather well, I think. Your sister has a formidable mind for business, I'm afraid, and our afternoon was surely successful."

Thorin eyed the bundle of papers, but he did not reach for them, instead busying his hands with smoothing the creases in his napkin, in between moments where he bundled the whole thing into a sorry state. "Good, good... and, ah, the negotiations were positive for both of you? For the Vale and Erebor, I mean?"

Sipping his tea held not only the benefit of a flavorful drink, but also the opportunity to watch Thorin fidget. Bilbo was amazed to know that Thorin _could_ twitch around like that, like a cat that wished to pounce but was unsure of its target. "Quite successful," he replied after a moment, and said no more.

Thorin's gaze cut to him, and he began to frown when he saw the smile hiding behind Bilbo's cup. "You're enjoying this," he grumbled, tossing the napkin on the table and glaring. 

The expression startled a laugh out of Bilbo, and he quickly covered his smiling mouth. "I told you before, Thorin, all negotiations will be through Princess Dís. You have only yourself to blame for this."

"Me? How am I to blame for you and my sister cavorting against me?!" Thorin exclaimed, which sent Bilbo into another fit of laughter, though Thorin's tone piqued his irritation, long forgotten in the aftermath of being kidnapped in Moria.

He huffed and set down his teacup as his laughter faded, frowning back at Thorin. "Because you didn't tell me about the gold! You can't just offer to send me aid, then turn around and give me more than what I needed -- and don't you frown at me like that! I've got a large job to work, now, and I'm going to do it properly!"

Thorin looked abashed for a moment, but still no less cross. "I simply wish to help you as my ability allows, which is more than anyone else. Surely your people could use it, after what has happened. Why won't you let me help you?"

"Because I am different from my people, Thorin, and my people have their pride, as do I!" Bilbo snapped, standing up and walking away from Thorin, his temper sending him to the window with his arms crossed. The silence hung between them, sparking with their ire, and Bilbo realized that he had just shouted at his friend, not a day after they had properly met.

Bother his temper! Bother his anger! Thorin did not deserve such words!

Bilbo turned around, an apology on his tongue, though the words fell silent before he could voice them, for Thorin had stood to approach him, looking as sorry as Bilbo felt. "Bilbo, I'm sorry," he started to say, but Bilbo held up a hand, his gaze dropping in shame.

"I'm sorry, too," he blurted, then took a deep breath. "I didn't mean to shout at you. I'm not angry at you, I'm just... mm. It's not _you_ , Thorin, I promise. I've just been... angry." He looked up hesitantly, meeting Thorin's anxious blue gaze, and breathed out, feeling even worse to see that look on his face. Like he had hurt Thorin.

"Will you tell me?" Thorin requested quietly after a moment, walking to Bilbo's side. "I will listen. I will always listen to you."

Bilbo craned his head toward Thorin, his hand fluttering against his side, before closing into a fist and facing the window. His eyes remained on the scenery outside, watching the Dwarves walk through the courtyard, but his attention was completely devoted to Thorin. Thorin gave him space, but Bilbo felt his presence all the same, the strength of his character, and knew that if he just leaned to the side, he could rely on Thorin to hold him up.

Yet he held himself up instead.

"I told you in my letters... I am angry," Bilbo began, his voice quiet. "At what was done to us, at what we suffered... and at the same time, I become even angrier when I hear people patronizing us, like we are helpless, like we deserve to be coddled."

"Even though so much has happened to my people, we _survived_. We fought for our right to live. Yet, I hear it... in the words of Elves, of Men, even of Dwarves, that when they give us aid, in food or clothing or help, that _they_ are giving us that same right to life. That we are helpless by ourselves, and that only through the actions of others are we saved. I am not talking about what the Dwarves did, physically freeing the slaves. I am not forsaking your aid, nor the foodstuffs we received from different people. I am not refusing your help, I just... I want you to separate my needs from those of my people.

"We Hobbits have our pride. We survived Shirefall alone. We didn't sit idly when the Orcs came, you know. We fought back, every step of the way, even as they dragged us into hell. I heard, even, that the Bounders pushed the Orcs out of the towns, before the Rangers came to help. _We_ saved ourselves. 

"My people had to pay for their food, though, often at terrible prices. Our stores and fields were ravaged, and we could only rely on distant towns of Tall Folk, who did not understand us or how much we ate, and they ended up overcharging us for too little, then told us we should be grateful for the help. The Rangers protected us during Shirefall, but they soon disappeared, leaving us to fend for ourselves. 

"I kept my people safe in Azog's halls. No one else, no Man or Elf or Dwarf kept Azog from killing us. It was me and my people, working harder than we had ever worked in our lives, forcing the Orcs to use us as chattel, rather than as stores. We made them see us as something to be used, and once we began working for them, they stopped eating us, for the most part. Mostly..."

He took a deep breath, staring out the window, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin's face. Paled, eyes darkened beyond despair, his gaze fastened to Bilbo, narrowed with attention. Bilbo forced himself to turn and meet Thorin's gaze, determined.

"I am tired of being seen as weak. As something to be pitied. I heard it whenever I spoke with Men, and with Elves, and even Gandalf. I heard it from Balin and the other Dwarves I've met. They all believe that they know what is best for us, that their decisions supersede ours.

"I know they mean well. I know everyone means _well_ , but that does not mean I am comforted by their pity, because I know they see me as a slave still. I would rather be seen as myself. Not as a slave, but as Bilbo Baggins."

Thorin stayed silent, his lips pinched, but his gaze had finally softened with understanding. Bilbo wondered how much Thorin understood, if perhaps Thorin was the only person outside of his race who could comprehend Bilbo's feelings and not reject them out of hand, as others had done before.

"I don't want you to give me whatever you think I need, Thorin, nor do I want you to give everything you have to my people in a show of pity. We have the money to barter for goods and services, and we have the ability to guide our lives as we see fit. Please, let me do what I need to do for my people. As for _my_ needs, well..." He fidgeted, his face warming as he thought of their letters, of the promises they had given each other.

"Just be my friend. I wish for you to look at me... and see me as Bilbo," he implored, his voice even as he met Thorin's blue, blue gaze, though his heart rattled in his chest as if trying to escape its confines.

For a long moment, Thorin said nothing, studying Bilbo's face with such rapt attention that Bilbo felt his cheeks warming from the weight of that blue gaze. 

"I am sorry," Thorin uttered, in the moment that the tension became too much for Bilbo to bear, "that I have been so blind. I did not mean to undermine the agency of your position here, nor your people's determination to govern themselves. I never realized how thoughtless I was acting in that regard, and it was never my intention, but I am sorry nonetheless. I will not do so again."

"Thank you," Bilbo murmured, his chest aching with the realization that Thorin did understand him. After a moment Thorin stepped closer, reaching up to the back of Bilbo's head, and Bilbo's heart sped up to a hammering, jittery state, beating in his ears as he stared up at Thorin. Then Thorin leaned in and touched their foreheads together, gentle as the softest breeze, his eyes lowering as his mien softened.

"As for you, my friend, I could never see you as anything else," Thorin said softly, his nose nudging against Bilbo's, in a brush of warm skin that felt as intimate as a time long ago, when he had shyly taken Holman Greenhand's hand behind a hedgebush. Thorin pulled away from the Dwarvish gesture of affection, and his hand lingered on Bilbo's neck, fingering the curls for a moment before letting him go.

With a start, Bilbo realized that his face was as hot as a rock in the sun, completely flushed from Thorin's close proximity. Just a touch of affection, and he was completely overdone. He turned away, pulling out his handkerchief and patting at his cheeks in bewilderment. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Thorin ducking his head, hot red flashing across his cheeks beneath his beard.

Suddenly Bilbo wondered how often Thorin showed this side of himself to others, if he was as affectionate and open with his family and friends as he seemed to be with Bilbo. He felt honored, then, that Thorin would share such a part of himself. He was glad, too, that he himself could share such affection with Thorin, that despite his past, the torment he had suffered, he could share that physical intimacy with a dear friend. Even Bofur, with whom he had traveled and shared quarters for months, could cause him to tense sometimes.

So far, he had never felt even the briefest flash of fear in Thorin's presence.

Bilbo took a deep breath. Then he took a step toward Thorin and leaned in, simply resting against his side, letting himself feel Thorin's solidity, his unwavering strength. He gave in, just for a moment, and let himself rely on someone else. For a moment, the entire world seemed to weigh on his shoulders, but then Bilbo realized that he could feel something more powerful than any pain that haunted him: Thorin, who stood quietly at his side, holding Bilbo up with the strength of his conviction.

Thorin's hand touched his back, and Bilbo breathed in shakily and stood up straight, lifting his gaze with a small smile. Thorin was watching him, the deep blue pool of his eyes gone dark with some unnamed emotion, but that Bilbo understood all the same. For a time, they simply stood together, their bond ever deepening in the peace of their silence.

~

Late that night, Bilbo sat alone in his room and thought about the reasons he had come to Erebor. He was relaxed and sleepy, but not yet tired enough to crawl into the large, plush bed that waited for him. He still smelled faintly of the herbs from the medicine bath he had taken earlier, at Óin's direction, and he felt that one bath in a healer's clinic was one too many for him.

The bath itself had been nice. The constant inquiries about his health, not so much. Bilbo dreaded braving the public baths, if even the private ones lacked such privacy.

Looking upon his letters, Bilbo had found that his aunt had listed a large number of items that Bilbo had never considered, from textiles to kitchenary needs. He thought of the contracts he had signed already that covered only the basics and despaired to himself, wondering if he was up to handling all of this.

Yet as he looked upon the letters from his kin, from the sweet note from May Grubb to the effusive letter from his own cousin Primula, he knew he would. Whatever his people needed -- and he had the gold now to do it. Dís was respectful and proficient in her negotiations, and Bilbo trusted that she would not take advantage of his people's plight.

It comforted him to know that Thorin understood, that Thorin of all people would not take Bilbo's right to take care of his people away from him. As he stirred the twirl of lemon around in his tea (and he would have to ask Thorin's cooks to show him how to do that; his father had used to make them for pies, but Bilbo had never learned), Bilbo took a deep breath and went to the bookshelf behind his desk, where the gilded box that had once held Thorin's ring sat. 

He had found the box sitting on his desk when he had returned to his room, empty of the ring stand but still lined with soft velvet. After undoing the locks to make sure it was the same box, Bilbo had chosen to use it to house his letters from Thorin. He thought it fitting.

Each letter was carefully preserved, though the paper had gone a bit soft, from Bilbo pulling each out and reading them late at night on his journey. He was glad that he could converse with Thorin just as easily in person as in letter, but there was something special about keeping Thorin's words in writing.

Now he could imagine Thorin's face with each word. He could read the letters in Thorin's deep voice. It was almost as good as talking with Thorin face to face.

What needed to be done for his people would be done. Bilbo would make sure of that, no matter how hard he needed to work, no matter what his people asked of him.

But surely... surely, for himself, he could take a few moments to be happy. Surely he could take the time to aid his family, to help his cousins heal from the trauma they had faced over the past several years. Surely he could allow himself to enjoy a moment with Thorin, someone who had grown very dear to him.

Surely his people would not begrudge him this peace.

After a time, Bilbo gently tucked the letters away and locked the box once more, hiding it against a few books in the corner of the lowest shelf. Then he gathered the letters from the Hobbits of the Vale and began to read.

From Myrtle Burrows:   
__

> _[...] and don't forget to look after yourself, my dear boy! Don't you go moping and hiding yourself away in that big mountain! I expect lots of stories for the children when I see you again. [...]_

From Dobbin Hayward:   
__

> _[...] can't thank you enough for what you've done for my son. This place is just what he needed. Today he told me about the frog he had caught in the river bed. My Hob hasn't thought of chasing frogs in years! I hope you're taking care of yourself now, Mr. Baggins. You deserve some healing, just as my son does. I hope that mountain does good for you. [...]_

From Linda Baggins:   
__

> _[...] I do hope you are taking this time to relax a bit, my dear nephew. Surely you have been traveling for months; a small respite will not harm you! I've instructed Otho and Drogo to behave for you, and I look forward to hearing about your trip, long as it was. Your cousin is looking after me, as are Mirabella and her family, so don't you worry about us. Look after yourself. [...]_

From Primula Brandybuck:   
__

> _[...] told Lobelia she would have all the flowers she could dream of using, and I was right. We've been teaching the younger girls about flower meanings, too, for the parties we will surely have in the summer when everyone has come here. You'll come too, won't you, Bilbo? I miss you surely, and I hope you are doing well, and that you and Rory are taking care of yourselves.[...]_

"I miss you all," Bilbo whispered, touching his fingers to his friends' and family's signatures, but his heart felt lighter for it. Everything he had worked for was for them; and perhaps they were right. Truly... if everyone said it was alright, then he could take a few moments for himself.

If those moments were spent at Thorin Oakenshield's side, well, nobody needed to know that but Bilbo himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry for the long wait! Lots of things happened, but in the end the chapter wasn't working as I had wanted it, so it got rewritten completely. Such is the flow of the story. I'm happy with how this turned out, though! I hope you've enjoyed it!
> 
> Next chapter: the Library!
> 
> Thank you to the ever-perfect kaavyawriting for betaing!

**Works inspired by this one:**

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